


An Island in an Ocean of Fear

by writeitininkorinblood



Series: I'll Pray For You [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, almost definitely, unless Netflix wants to make me really happy with season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeitininkorinblood/pseuds/writeitininkorinblood
Summary: An unexpected pair of visitors finds their way to the camp of the surviving Fey and their allies. It's a lot more than Gawain signed up for.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: I'll Pray For You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870960
Comments: 122
Kudos: 504





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay internet why is everyone sleeping on the most shippable pair of characters in this show? Smh.
> 
> We're ignoring the fact that this is 100% never in a million years what will happen in any second season. Am I explaining how they got to this point? No! Do I know where they got these tents? No! Is Gawain probably dead? Maybe! Essentially it's just self-indulgent nonsense that ignores anything that could be considered plot. But it's cute and gay so I thought the internet might like it too.

Gawain had insisted on taking watch shifts of his own. As the Green Knight, he could have easily have talked his way out of it and left the famously boring activity to someone with less on their plate, but it helped. He liked sitting in the woods and pretending that they stretched as far as his imagination could take them. No kings of men or Red Paladins or raiders. Just the Fey who had survived, the allies they’d made, and their temporary encampment while they gathered what few forces they could and healed those who had life left to live. While the endless nothingness of trees and darkness was frightening to many, it was comforting to a man who could navigate them better than he could the emotions of most people.

The night had been unfolding much as any other – with a complete lack of anything interesting – when he heard the quiet crush of leaves. Too heavy to be a human or Fey on foot, which meant a horse. That ruled out the chance of a surprise attack from anyone competent, but didn’t provide much in terms of an answer. Gawain drew his sword just in case.

“Green Knight!”

That was the answer he’d been looking for, but far from one he would have ever allowed himself to hope for. The horse in question emerged from the shadows into the gentle glow of the torches from the Fey camp, and Squirrel was suddenly scrambling to get down, running as soon as his feet hit the ground. Gawain barely had time to steel himself before there was a small Fey child who’d forgotten his own strength colliding with his knees.

“You’re like a cockroach, kid. Impossible to kill,” Gawain laughed, ruffling Squirrel’s hair and trying to supress quite how happy he was to see the boy.

He truly had never expected to see the child again, assuming him dead to the Red Paladins. When they’d all pulled themselves together enough to hold a kind of memorial for everyone they had lost, Squirrel had been top of his mind. He had the spirit and the dedication to be something great, and perhaps now he would get the chance. Gawain would have picked him up and carried him back to camp triumphantly, only someone else dropped down from the horse’s saddle.

Once Gawain had registered who it was, he was putting himself between Squirrel and the newcomer, despite the fact they’d clearly travelled here together. He would have been perfectly content to never see the Weeping Monk again, brother in Fey blood or not.

“How did you find your way here?” he growled, tightening his grip on his sword.  
“You know what I am. Old Fey is no mystery to me,” the Monk said, his voice even and tired. “I can read your directions.”

Oh. Right. They had sent Fey into the woods to weave symbols to direct anyone still looking for sanctuary. Perhaps they should work out a new way of indicating their location.

“How many Red Paladins did you lead here to slaughter us,” Gawain narrowed his eyes.

In response, the Weeping Monk only drew his swords and held eye contact for a long moment, before letting both blades fall to the ground at his feet. Then he pulled the bow from his shoulder and dropped it and its accompanying quiver of arrows beside it. Gawain thought him done, but it was four knives later, pulled from pockets and the inside of his boot, that he finally held up his hands in surrender.

“No Red Paladins. They are not where my allegiances lie,” the Monk admitted.

Gawain was stunned into silence. Not the uneventful night of watch he had expected.

“Lancelot is here to help,” Squirrel explained defiantly, stepping out from behind Gawain and standing beside the Monk. Beside… Lancelot?

-

It was obvious that standing in the forest and staring into the eyes of the Ash Folk traitor, who had cut down more than his fair share of Fey, really wasn’t going to provide any answers to this baffling scenario. Eventually Gawain got to the end of list of potential solutions in his head and he knew this had to go to someone else. Somewhat begrudgingly, he led Lancelot in to the temporary Fey encampment, with one hand protectively placed on Squirrel’s shoulder and with his sword still carefully drawn and held at the Monk’s back.

It was a small camp, with a sadly depleted number of people, and it wasn’t a long walk to where Nimue slept.

“Pym,” Gawain murmured, nudging the dozing girl with his foot where she had slumped at the opening to the tent. He didn’t want to wake anyone beyond who was necessary.

They had shifts to watch the woods and shifts to watch the tent of the Fey Queen, just in case. Only they didn’t tell Nimue about the latter – it would likely only make her angry to learn that they were wasting resources on her like that.

Pym blinked sleepily, pushing her hair out of her eyes and groggily shoving back against the foot in her ribs until she was awake enough to remember she was meant to be on watch. She hastily got up, trying to straighten herself out and look alert in front of the Green Knight. Until she registered that the man stood beside Gawain was awfully familiar. Her surprise had her stumbling back in fright, tripping over one of the ropes holding up the tent and finding herself back on the ground with sharp pain running through her coccyx. Gawain lent her a hand and pulled her to her feet with only the briefest of an eye roll.

“He’s evil, what’s he doing here, does he-” she hissed, but he only raised a hand to cut her off.

“Let the Wolf-Blood Witch know she has visitors,” he explained simply.  
“She’s resting,” Pym said, unsure she wanted to wake her long-suffering friend.  
“Trust me, she’s going to want to see this.”

Pym seemed convinced enough, ducking inside the tent and leaving Gawain in the middle of a sleeping encampment with someone who had killed countless innocent Fey on the word of a corrupt leader. It was easier to just ignore the Weeping Monk.

“Percival, are you hurt?” he said instead, turning to the boy and praying Lancelot wasn’t hiding another knife to stab him in the back with.

“Hurt?” Squirrel repeated, as if confused by the concept.

“Do you need a healer?” Gawain tried, looking over the boy and seeing no indication that he was mortally wounded or that Lancelot had harmed him, but still wanting to be sure.  
“No, sir.”

Squirrel said it with so much conviction that Gawain was certain it would have been his answer even if it wasn’t the case, but the child was walking fine and holding himself with stable enough stature that he would live either way.  
“What about food?” Gawain pushed.

About to promise he didn’t need any special attention, Squirrel was already shaking his head as the memory of food that was not scavenged from the forests came back to him and his eyes went wide with the possibility. Something with spices, something cooked properly, something more filling than the bare minimum.

“If there is any to spare, I could eat,” Squirrel admitted.

“I will see it arranged that there is. Can you wait just a while? Whatever you have to say in defence of your friend here would probably do more to convince Nimue coming from you. I’m not sure she’d believe me even if I swore to the gods.”

Lancelot shifted awkwardly, not comfortable with being talked about. Or not used to the concept of having a friend, even if the friend in question was a child.  
“Aye, sir, I can wait,” Squirrel nodded vehemently.

“Good boy.”

“Squirrel is here?!” came the strangled, half-awake voice of Nimue through the thin fabric of the tent.

Hearing her speak, Squirrel was gone. He ducked into the tent and disappeared in a second, leaving Gawain alone with the Weeping Monk. Historically, that hadn’t ended well for the Green Knight and it wasn’t something he was entirely comfortable with. He turned to look into those eyes, but before he could say anything, Lancelot spoke first.

“Born in the dawn,” he mumbled, looking rather sheepish.

“To pass in the twilight,” Gawain finished automatically. He swallowed. “You’re embracing your kinship with our people, I see?”

Lancelot noticeably didn’t answer that, instead catching his eye on the cut above Gawain’s eye that hadn’t healed over yet from his trip to the Red Paladin’s house of torture, despite the best efforts of the surviving healers.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“You didn’t-”

“I know. But I took you to them.”

Gawain couldn’t argue with that. He reached up to rearrange his hair so it covered the gash, trying to make it look casual. It seemed like something he didn’t want to have to make Lancelot look at, somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

It was an awkward five minutes of silence as they waited outside the tent. Gawain considered the option of walking away, but the Weeping Monk certainly shouldn’t be left without a warden. Not until they knew exactly what his intentions were. Thankfully Pym stuck her head outside the tent and gestured them inside before the pair bowed under the weight of the silence and were forced into a conversation neither wanted to have.

Gawain kept his sword drawn and gestured for Lancelot to walk first, a move anchored in suspicion far more so than chivalry.

The Fey Queen’s tent was lit by three low burning lanterns, revealing a small space that often served as much as meeting point for those starting to consider themselves a council as it did as a sleeping quarters. Nimue’s bed was pushed into a corner so it was out of the way, and had clearly had just been slept in, blankets piled hastily back on top. Nimue herself was equally as hastily dressed, her hair rumpled by sleep and her eyes still blinking as they got used to being open again. She had the Sword of Power in her hand, using it as a crutch as covertly as she could as she stood in the centre of the tent with Pym at her side. Squirrel was sat on a chair to the side, kicking his feet against the floor.

“You burned my village. And my people,” she said in lieu of a greeting, her voice cold and only a little rough with sleep.

Lancelot remembered every village and Dewdenn was no exception. He hadn’t set the fires, hadn’t strung up any of the Elders. Some Sky Folk had died by his hand there, but not through flame.

“No, but I did not stop the people that did,” he clarified, wanting things as clearly laid out as was possible. “My past is as dark as you know, but I don’t wish for it to be my future.”

It took extreme amounts of effort to ignore the screaming pain of his body and kneel gracefully in front of Nimue, just as she’d seen him kneel in front of Father Carden all that time ago in her Village.  
“I would offer up my sword to you, but I surrendered it to your night watch,” he said, unable to resist the smallest hint of humour.

Gawain turned away to hide his smile but Squirrel didn’t bother, opening grinning. Their journey towards the remaining Fey had been a long one and eventually they’d started to talk. That Lancelot was funny was a surprising revelation and it was clearly something that had been discouraged in him for a long time. Squirrel had rather enjoyed bringing it out of him.

Despite the unprovoked allegiance change of the Weeping Monk, Nimue was uncertain. He seemed genuine, but his past was too chequered to ignore. Now that he knew the location of the Fey camp, they couldn’t let him go. The choice was kill him, imprison him, or let him join their side. Even without a sword of legends in his hand, Nimue knew the Monk was a deadly fighter. He had defeated Gawain, after all, and if he truly did want to throw his lot in with their motley crew then his skill could aid them well. Only what could possibly cause such a drastic change in the man?

“He’s Fey,” Gawain offered up the answer to the question he could see ticking through Nimue’s mind. Lancelot might not like to hear it, flinching at the statement, but it might be information that would spare his life. “Ash Folk. Those eyes. They haven’t roamed these shores for centuries, but that’s what he is.”

“I will not deny it,” Lancelot whispered.

He was working on self-acceptance, but Father Carden had been thorough and unyielding in his conversion.

Nimue blinked at the revelation, confused and certainly not awake enough to properly deal with this. She had little desire to persecute one of her own, but if anyone inside the camp committed even one of the Weeping Monk’s crimes against their people, there would be consequences. Only those people hadn’t lived under the tyranny and suppression of Father Carden and his forces. This was a problem for the morning, she decided, after a night of sleep and once she could gather together more of the people she trusted most to ask them their thoughts.

“Sit,” she demanded of the Weeping Monk, pointing to the chair beside Squirrel.

He was in no position to argue and climbed to his feet, the tremble of his legs as he did so alerting Gawain’s careful eye to the fact that something may be wrong. Before he could say anything of it, Nimue had him by the arm and pulled him over to the other side of the tent so she could speak with him more privately.

“I’m going to call everyone in tomorrow to discuss this, okay? I know it’s rather a major development but it can wait until morning. Squirrel needs to sleep right now, and we need the full story from him,” Nimue whispered. “There’s no immediate threat.”

“What do we do with the Monk tonight?” Gawain questioned. Squirrel would be easy to put in one of the children’s tents - there were a few spare beds, but he also wasn’t the one with the ability to slaughter most of them in their sleep.

“Well…” Nimue began, a plan forming that she knew was going to be contentious.  
“We don’t exactly have dungeons.”  
“No. We don’t. And I would prefer him to be under some kind of supervision.”

“Nimue,” he cautioned, hating where this was going.

“You’re probably the only one who could put up a fight against him. And I trust you more than anyone,” she reasoned.

“And I trust him as far as Pym can throw him,” Gawain grumbled.

The resulting “Hey!” from where Pym was catching up with Squirrel suggested that their private meeting was probably less private than they’d hoped.

“Gawain, please,” Nimue asked, as his friend rather than his leader. And it was that specific differentiation that had Gawain caving.

“Fine,” he sighed. “One night, then we need to make a more permanent decision.”

Nimue nodded, pulling Gawain in for a quick hug to mumble a thank you in his ear. He could see the exhaustion in her eyes so was quick to allow her to return to her rest. Sheathing his sword, he rounded up Squirrel and Lancelot and they took their leave back into the stillness of the camp, after the boy gave both Pym and Nimue one last hug.

Their first stop was to the tents that functioned as kitchens. No one was working, not even the Faun bakers who woke up long before the sun to start baking bread, but Gawain could easily find some dried meats, a handful of spiced nuts, and some fruit. It wasn’t the hot meal he wanted to be able to give Squirrel, but it would tide him over until morning. After a moment of consideration, Gawain handed some of the food over to Lancelot as well.

“I don’t need-” he tried to protest.

“Eat,” Gawain ordered. “You’re Fey, but that doesn't make you invincible.”

The pair ate quickly, clearly far more hungry than they’d realised. Gawain pretended not to notice when Lancelot gave his blackberries to Squirrel. At least he’d eaten some of the food himself; it certainly seemed like he needed it.

With an order to Squirrel to not to wake up the tent full of children, all those who had no parents left they could stay with, Gawain found him an empty bed and bid him a goodnight. To see the child safe and well in the Fey encampment was more than he would have been able to dream up, and he couldn’t help but revel in the sight for a long moment.

Left alone with Lancelot again, Gawain walked him only thirty paces through the camp to the large tent that had been set up for those who needed healing. It had once been full but a few weeks had passed since the establishment of the camp and thankfully many of those who once resided there had since recovered and moved back in with clans or families. Ducking inside, Gawain removed one of the now surplus straw mattresses, careful not to wake the sleeping Tusk mother with her two-day-old baby or the Moon Wing child who’d accidentally eaten something poisonous while scavenging for berries in the woods. He’d avoided seeing much of the inside of this tent before, opting instead to hole up in his own abode and wait for the poultices and salves of the healers to do their work. And they had, mostly. The worst of his injuries had healed partly due to the carefully cultivated knowledge of his people, and partly due to sheer determination on his own behalf. He was strong enough to stand guard at night, to wear his armour to cover the majority of the remaining wounds, to carry a straw mattress.

Lancelot seemed surprised by the arrival of a mattress, like he’d been convinced he would be sleeping on the floor. Gawain had to admit it had been his first thought, but he had a feeling the man wasn’t exactly uninjured himself. It occurred to him that perhaps there was something they could do about that.

“What about you?” he asked, rougher than he intended. “The boy needs no healer, but do you?”

Used to being silent more often than not, Lancelot took a moment to find his voice. He didn’t deny his injuries, but he couldn’t accept the offer either.  
“Your healers wouldn’t help me,” he sighed. It was highly possible he’d been responsible for the deaths of many of their loved ones.  
“You are Fey. We have stronger blood bonds than you know.”

With no further way to deny help by suggesting it would not be freely given, Lancelot opted instead for a quick and quiet admittance to the truth, vague as it was.

“I don’t want to see a healer.”

“Martyr,” Gawain snorted, but he didn’t push the matter, just picking up the straw mattress and heading towards his tent.

In truth Lancelot longed for a poultice to ease the burning of his wounds. He’d checked them while they’d rested the horse and they’d leave ugly scars and deformities behind, but nothing he didn’t deserve. They were shoddily dressed by his own hand, but it was enough to stave off infection. He wasn’t about to die. And yet the cooling spread of Fey remedies still seemed like such an enticing offer – only the price was baring his soul, his map of scars and self-inflicted torture in the hopes of chasing the darkness from his very being, and he would rather endure the pain.


	3. Chapter 3

Gawain rarely had anyone in his tent, let alone someone who planned to stay the night. It usually seemed so big when it was just him, but with another body beneath the canvas it suddenly seemed like hardly any space at all. He’d pushed the straw mattress he’d borrowed into the back corner, as far away from his own bed as he could and the greatest distance from the entrance. Although he was certain that if Lancelot wanted to sneak out, that wouldn’t stop him.

The Monk looked exceedingly uncomfortable. He stood awkwardly beside the mattress, looking around the tent like an army of avenging Fey were likely to swarm out of hiding at any moment. It wasn’t that he hadn’t shared tents before – tracking Fey with the Red Paladins was frequently a migratory task and each tent they carried, if they even bothered to carry any at all, was just more weight slowing the horses down. But he’d never shared a tent with someone who had, certainly in the past if not still in the present, wanted him dead. It was understandable, sensible even, that they all be wary of him and the harm he could intent to cause but Lancelot couldn’t shake the thought that they could cause him just as much harm, and that they outnumbered him hundreds-to-one. Simply lying down on the mattress and closing his eyes seemed too easy to be free of risk or stipulation.

“I can sleep outside,” he offered quietly, deciding he’d be much more at home under the stars than he would in the residence of the Green Knight.

“No, you can’t. Nimue says I’ve got to keep an eye on you and I, for one, am certainly not sleeping on the floor outside. So make yourself comfortable, Lancelot,” Gawain sighed.

It was the first time the Weeping Monk had heard anyone other than Squirrel use his given name, his _real_ name, in years. Father Carden had known it, but never used it. The rest of the Red Paladins probably thought ‘Weeping Monk’ was the only name he’d ever had. He had to turn away from Gawain, afraid fresh tears might join the permanent ones. That name reminded him of everything he’d lost and he half-wished he’d never given it over so freely to the child. He pulled the hood of his cloak further forward, like he could hide from the past.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you with that hood down,” Gawain noted absentmindedly, regretting it immediately.

Every bone in Lancelot’s spine locked together so quickly it looked painful, and it was obvious the wrong button had been pushed. He stared at the wall of the tent so intensely it was a wonder it didn’t combust from the force. The cloak marked him as different from his red brothers, marked him as special – or so Father Carden had said. It kept the world one barrier away. It made it harder for people to stare at his eyes. 

The urge to comfort the Monk bubbled up in Gawain’s stomach and he had to work hard to shove it back down. He may have told the man that all Fey were brothers, even the lost ones, but he didn’t have to like all his brothers. Only this particular brother looked small and hurt and in desperate need of a hug.

He had been sure that Lancelot was going to just ignore him, but after a long, awkward silence, he finally got a reply.

“It’s nothing something I often do.”

There was still a heavy amount of tension in the man’s shoulders, but he seemed to be breathing steadily again which Gawain was going to take as a good sign. If they were going to be sleeping in the same tent then they had to at least exist comfortably beside each other. Of course, Gawain wasn’t planning on spending any of the time actually sleeping when he had the enemy’s sharpest weapon in his midst. That wasn’t a sensible move.  
“Hiding yourself from the world or the world from yourself?” he asked, trying to make it sound light and jokey. It was anything but.

Lancelot turned to look over his shoulder, startled by the question. There were those eyes again, dark and far deeper than Gawain was comfortable with. They looked too far and held too much. But they seemed amused, for maybe the first time.  
“Can it not be a little of both?” he shrugged softly, lips twitching up.

“I’ve certainly never seen you smile,” Gawain laughed, surprising them both. It was far from an unwelcome sight.  
“Could you, if you were me?”

That put an end to whatever daft train of thought was about to leave the station in Gawain’s head, its cargo of soft thoughts of the secret smiles of pretty men promptly abandoned. This was not a pretty man. He was drenched in too much blood.

“So you’re going to sleep with the hood on?” Gawain asked, clearing his throat and hoping his thoughts were not written on his face.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow from across the dimly-lit tent.

“Do you sleep in your armour?”

“Touché,” Gawain nodded, because when he didn’t feel safe, he did.

Content to have made his point, Lancelot started to undo the empty sheathes still tied around his waist. He absently wondered what would happen to the weapons they had housed. There had to be an armoury in this Fey refugee camp – they were still in a war, after all. Presumably they’d be handed out to some young Fey soldier who could do with something sharper. 

“The hood is more comfortable than your armour, I’d wager,” Lancelot said, although why he bothered he wasn’t sure. He could have just kept quiet and collapsed onto the mattress and called it a night. But instead he looked back over his shoulder to get another glimpse of the Green Knight, who seemed entirely out of place in his own home.

Gawain caught his eye as he peeked. There was that smile again. It was tiny, but Gawain reckoned it had a lot to fight against. He wasn’t entirely against encouraging it some more. Everything he knew about this man would have had him considering slitting his throat in the night. Except he was Fey. He had brought Squirrel home. He had so much pain in his eyes. And he seemed surprised every time anyone showed him the slightest ounce of compassion, be it food freely given or a mattress to sleep on. Perhaps it was time someone showed him trust.

Gawain spent a second considering it, before he reached for the straps on his spaulders and pulled them loose. His vambraces soon followed until he had a tidy pile of armour beside his bed and was left in his breastplate but nothing else in the way of protection. It was nothing more than he’d usually take off before sleeping, but he felt considerably more exposed than he did when he went to bed alone. Still, Squirrel trusted this man. Nimue seemingly trusted this man. And he trusted both of them implicitly.

Lancelot tried not to watch, he really did. It was hardly a striptease, but it felt intimate somehow and he was pretty sure he was meant to be averting his eyes. Only Gawain’s arms were strong with lines of muscle under his shirt and it was hard to look away from that. Until he remembered that staring at men as they undressed was certainly not something Father Carden would approve of, and he wrenched his gaze away. Even if he was dead, some of his lessons clung on anyway.

Once the Green Knight was washing his face from the bowl of water at the foot of his bed, Lancelot sighed. This was probably a two-way street. If Gawain was willing to trust him not to stab him in the night, he should probably return the favour. Which meant his own act of vulnerability. His hand went to the strap on his cloak and he tried to force back the shaking as he undid the clasp. Pushing back the hood and letting the fabric fall away from his body, he felt naked. It was painful work to force away the feeling of weakness – he was still wearing more layers of clothes than Gawain was. Besides, the Green Knight was no stranger to the Fey, even the Ash Folk. He wouldn’t stare at the birthmarks under his eyes, wouldn’t be disgusted by them even though he knew what exactly they signified. Knew what blood ran in his veins.

When he heard Gawain’s breath hitch behind him, Lancelot froze. Had he seen the scars somehow? He couldn’t possibly – they were all so carefully hidden. It was only after a moment of reflection that he realised the Green Knight had seen his tonsure, carved deep with a cross. Turning pointedly so it would be hidden, he faced a confused and seemingly saddened Gawain.

Lancelot found himself wanting to earn the man’s trust, to be worthy of it. And the first step of that was to tell the truth. It was better to lay all his cards on the table now than to be caught stacking the deck later. So he reached into his sleeve and released the final dagger he kept on his person from its sheath tight against his arm. Pulling it out, he saw Gawain’s eyes widen and then flicker to his own sword, abandoned on the ground beside most of his armour. Quickly, before he started a fight he did not want, Lancelot flipped the blade over through his fingers with a casual deftness that he dared to flatter himself sparked an impressed glint where a second ago there had been fear. He held the dagger out, pommel first. Gawain searched his face for a long moment, trying to sense any impending trick, but when those weeping eyes came up empty of malice he reached for the surrendered weapon. The tips of his fingers brushed against Lancelot’s knuckles and they both purposefully overlooked the involuntary flinch that ran through their hands and up their arms, imbedding itself somewhere deep and ignored.

“Is this the last one?” Gawain asked, quickly inspecting the knife to find it nothing more than a simple hunting blade. Deadly in the right hands and at the right moment, no doubt, but no Sword of Power.  
“Yes,” Lancelot admitted.  
“How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

It was a fair question for someone to ask if they did not know the Weeping Monk, and Gawain certainly did not.

“I have never been in the business of lying,” Lancelot said simply.

It seemed to be enough. Gawain dropped the dagger on top of the pile of his own armour and Lancelot took the moment to lower himself down onto the mattress, trying desperately hard not to wince or whimper at the pain his body was still in as he did. He didn’t want the weakness to show but, from the frown on Gawain’s face, he’d caught it anyway.

Bundling his cloak into a pillow and turning to face the wall, Lancelot curled up. He hadn’t been able to sleep properly in weeks, always staying alert for a twig snapping or branch rustling that might reveal a threat to him and Percival as they rested. It had been long enough without decent rest that his eyes were already falling closed and he was happy to take his chances that the Green Knight might end him while he dreamed.

Sitting down on the side of his own mattress, Gawain watched the Monk try to get comfortable. He looked so small with all his limbs pulled in tight, bony from a few weeks of minimal food. That he was exhausted was clear; it was easy to read in the curve of his spine. When you were in charge of men fighting a war, you learned to recognise even the most well-supressed exhaustion. Because a tired soldier was a clumsy one, a reckless one. A dead one. Gawain had never sent a man into battle without adequate rest unless there was no other option. So far as he could tell, Lancelot really was planning on getting some sleep and it would be a fool’s errand to stay up for the rest of the night to watch someone unconscious. Perhaps they could both get some rest before the impending inquisition of the next morning got underway.

“Murder me in my sleep and the Fey Queen will have your head,” Gawain grumbled, extinguishing the lantern and throwing a spare blanket over in Lancelot’s direction before wriggling down beneath his own.

He heard the soft swish of fabric as his offering was pulled up onto the other mattress and wrapped tight around the Monk for comfort.

“Thank you,” came the whispered reply in the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Considering his roommate for the night, Gawain slept far deeper than he’d planned. The sunlight that slowly infused into the tent through its thin canvas walls would usually be enough to rouse him, but he dozed through the early morning light until voices outside were the thing to break through the wall to his consciousness. The camp was not large and the tents were not soundproof, so catching snippets of the conversations of those walking past outside was not rare, but this was different. This was angry, and stagnant. Whoever was out there wasn’t simply passing by.

Groaning at the rude awakening and pushing his hair out of his face, Gawain clamoured out of bed, not quite yet alert enough to be graceful about it. He spared a look to Lancelot, who still seemed to be sleeping but had rolled over during the night. There was a peaceful expression on his face, almost a smile. He hadn’t run away and hadn’t stabbed Gawain in his sleep, so that was something.

Opening the entrance flap to the tent just enough that he could poke he head out to see what the commotion was about, Gawain was greeted by what he could best describe as a pathetic attempt at a mob, maybe eight or ten Fey. They were mainly Tusks, holding small weapons that could go explained as necessary tools for their days – hunting knives, a bow, a few pitchforks. But when they were wielded by people who looked so angry, they seemed all the more threatening. The group seemed to be discussing something animatedly and, by the way they all stopped guiltily as soon as he appeared, he could guess with relative accuracy that it was whether or not to storm the tent that had been the topic at hand.

“Good morning,” Gawain said, guarded and rather wishing he’d re-donned his armour before this confrontation. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Apparently the camp got a visitor last night,” the apparent leader of the group grunted, clutching a knife in his hand.

Quite how the word had spread that the Weeping Monk had arrived was unclear but Gawain stiffened, ready to act as a barrier into the tent if he had to. He wasn’t about to let these Tusks ambush a sleeping and unarmed Lancelot.

“Is that so?” he said, gritting his teeth.  
“We ‘eard he was in ‘ere,” one of the younger tusks, barely a teenager, spoke up and shook a pitchfork.

“Did you now.”

It was a difficult task for Gawain not to roll his eyes. This was more like a childish game of make-believe than an efficient mob. Did they really think they were going to be given access to Lancelot so freely, or that Nimue wouldn’t punish them for anything they did against her will. Or even that Lancelot would not still be able to best the lot of them, even if ambushed and without his blades.  
“Let us past, Gawain. We just want to talk to him,” the leader spoke again.  
The way he tightened his fist around his knife made that claim difficult to believe.

“This is my tent and I was trying to get some sleep. Go away,” the Green Knight ordered, using every inch of his sway in camp to make it sound as legitimate as possible.  
“He’s no friend to our kind. He’s a murderer, a monster.”

Clearly a simple order was not going to be sufficient. Rather than reveal the Weeping Monk’s identity as a Fey, or argue that everyone or no one was a murderer in a war, Gawain opted for a threat that he certainly managed to make sound believable.  
“If you don’t vacate my doorway immediately, I will cut you in half with my sword,” he growled.

The group seemed to have exhausted their poorly thought out plan and drifted away with shouted threats for their assumed occupant of the tent as they went. Gawain watched them go, wanting to make sure no one made a dash back for an opportunist attack. They alone were little threat, but rumour and hatred were two things that spread like fire through farms if left unchecked. Lancelot wasn’t going to be safe there without Nimue’s intervention. Gawain wasn’t even sure how to get him back to her tent in the light of day without provoking attacks.

Sighing and turning back to the inside of the tent, Gawain found Lancelot awake and sat up at the edge of his mattress with the borrowed blanket folded neatly beside him. He looked surprisingly untroubled by the threats he must have heard from outside, almost resigned to the fate.

“It’s natural for them to want revenge,” he shrugged, answering the question he sensed.  
“Perhaps. But I think they’d be lynching the wrong person,” Gawain said, earning himself a look of surprise. “Good morning, I trust you slept better than out in the woods?”

Lancelot just blinked at him, baffled by the familiarity and normality of the interaction. It took him several moments before he could even nod in reply. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever thought to ask him how he’d slept before. Usually he’d be praying upon first waking, but he didn’t know what he believed in anymore and he wanted to distance himself from Father Carden’s influences as much as possible. Instead, he simply shook out his clock and fixed it back around himself, pulling up the hood. He felt more comfortable that way.

Deciding both that it was wise to be prepared for anyone else who sought the head of the Weeping Monk, and that he didn’t want to answer any questions about why he’d felt he could relax in front of him, Gawain began the task of redressing into his armour. Lancelot would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed to lose the less obstructed view of the man, but it was probably for the best. He clearly wasn’t welcome here at the best of times, let alone if the Green Knight knew he’d been staring.

Once he was fully dressed, Gawain tried to work out what the best plan of action was. It would undoubtedly be wise to bring Nimue and her cohort to Lancelot, rather than try to secret him across a camp of people who blamed him for the death of their loved ones, but in order to get that message to the Fey Queen, he’d need to leave the man in question alone. He may have proved by staying that night that he wasn’t likely to run, but Gawain worried more for Lancelot’s safety in the camp. He could always leave him with a sword, but it would be better if no more Fey blood was spilled.

Lancelot himself had found a small hole in the tent’s canvas, suspiciously arrow head shaped, and couldn’t help but peek out at the camp. It was so much more alive in the light of day than it had been the night before, and he watched as Fey folk moved about their daily lives. A group of hunters passed by, likely heading deeper into the woods. Some Faun women were ferrying baskets of food. A harried Sky Folk teenager seemed to be corralling a gaggle of Fey children. None of them looked dangerous, or evil, or infested with the will of the devil. The ones he had killed had been just as innocent.

He pulled away from the gap and turned his attention back to Gawain, who was watching him carefully.

“Can I be of help here?” Lancelot asked.

“Oh I suspect Nimue will be keen to pick your brain of any plans the Red Paladin cohort may have regarding the extinction of our kind,” Gawain promised. There was much the Monk may be able to warn them of, even if the death of Father Carden may have seen changes to the plans along with the regime.  
“I’m willing to tell her all I know, but beyond that, if you allow me to stay then I… I want to help farm.”  
“Farm?”

Gawain was certain he’d misheard. Why would a man who could likely best any soldier in the country be interested in tending to fields?  
“You must be growing crops of some kind, no? At least temporarily. I would like to help,” Lancelot insisted. He wanted to re-earn his right to belong amongst the Fey and had no idea where to begin when it came to making amends for the lives he had taken. Starting somewhere smaller seemed easier.

“Are you much of a farmer?” Gawain asked, willing to be proven wrong in his assumptions about the life of the Weeping Monk but doubting that he would be.  
“No. But I have some things to atone for,” Lancelot admitted, bowing his head under the weight of the shame.

It was then that Gawain realised.  
“You burned our farms.”

Flinching, Lancelot nodded. It had been under orders and it had seemed preferable to shoot arrows at fields of wheat rather than at people, but he wasn’t ignorant of the pain that act alone had caused when food must have begun to grow scarce. It had driven them to the mill that day. He’d threatened to torture one of Gawain’s friends, would have gone through with it if not for the mercy arrow shot from the mill, and it had almost led him to surrender. That had been the first time he’d really seen the Green Knight, and he hadn’t been far from his mind ever since. Although the reason why was quickly changing.

“I don’t think either of us will get much say in what happens to you,” Gawain said, awkward at the influx of memories. “That’s up to Nimue. But… If she seeks my counsel I will see what I can do.”

Lancelot’s reply died on his tongue as a figure came barrelling though into the tent. He flinched away but made no attempt to defend himself from what he immediately assumed would be an assassination attempt by a disgruntled Fey, but Gawain was suddenly in front of him, blade drawn, ready to face an assailant. Only the figure now finding himself at the tip of the sword was small, surprised, and recognisable once he was stood still. Squirrel’s eyes crossed as he looked at the point of the blade and raised his hands in surrender, but Gawain just sheathed the weapon and cuffed him on the shoulder

“Boy, did no one ever teach you to knock?” he admonished.  
“Can’t knock on a tent,” Squirrel shrugged. “I wanted to check you hadn’t killed him.” He darted round Gawain to stand in front of Lancelot and look him up and down. “They didn’t hurt you, right?”  
“No, Percival,” Lancelot promised. “They didn’t.”

Squirrel seemed to hesitate for a moment before throwing his arms around Lancelot for a tight hug.

“Thank you for bringing me home,” he mumbled, the words half lost to the fabric into which he spoke them.

Gawain watched in shock as Squirrel, who so ardently wanted revenge for his slain family, embraced the Weeping Monk. Clearly their weeks of travel had proved to the child that Lancelot was far from the same person now that he had been then. He only hoped that the boy could convince Nimue of the same thing, because he couldn’t imagine the pain she could cause him if she suspected him to be a spy or infiltrator. From the few interactions they’d had so far, Gawain was certain he was genuine in his rejection of the Red Paladins, but it might take him a little longer to truly accept the Fey as his people. Still, he’d brought Squirrel back to them unharmed; he wanted to start to atone for what he’d done; he was still letting the boy hug him even though Gawain could see how it caused pain to flare up in his still wounded body. Rather than push him away, Lancelot ruffled the boy’s hair and asked if he’d managed to find himself some breakfast.

“There’s porridge, which is… well, it’s porridge,” Squirrel pulled a face. “But it’s hot and there’s honey and there’s still some left if you-”

He started to pull Lancelot towards the entrance, but Gawain stepped into his path.

“I’m not sure that’s for the best. In fact…” Here was the answer to his conundrum. “Could you go to Nimue’s tent, anyone can direct you if you can’t remember from last night, and ask her to come here?”

Squirrel nodded and had almost slipped back outside when Gawain remembered how small Lancelot had looked without his cloak the night before, how much like skin and bones.

“And bring a bowl of porridge on your way back, for your friend.”


	5. Chapter 5

Squirrel made it back before Nimue, who was apparently gathering together the people she trusted most and promised she would be there soon, and came bearing a bowl of still steaming hot porridge, drizzled generously with the amount of honey a child would usually add. When Lancelot went to refuse the offer of food, Gawain fixed him with a pointed look until he took the bowl and spoon and started to eat. He savoured the well-cooked, if slightly too sweet, hot meal, not used to anything beyond what could be foraged from the trees. There was the slightest bit of kick to the porridge, the tell-tale hallmark of Faun cooking evident in the subtle spices they used. It was better food than Lancelot had tasted in years -the Red Paladins were hardly known for their expertise in a kitchen. At least not one that produced food.

As he ate, he and Gawain let Squirrel talk. There were still gaps in Gawain’s knowledge when it came to quite how the pair had ended up at the camp and the boy was happy to fill them. He knew he’d probably be hearing it from Lancelot in an official report to Nimue before the morning was out, but there was something endearing about watching Squirrel re-enact Lancelot’s takedown of the Trinity Guard, flying around the room and knocking into practically everything. The Monk looked sheepish to hear his exploits told with such embellished bravado, but he added nothing and offered no protest. Even when Squirrel slightly over-exaggerated his own role in the fight. It was when the boy moved on to their journey to the new Fey camp that Gawain began to understood why Lancelot seemed so malnourished. Even through Squirrel’s eyes, unaware exactly what he was saying, it was clear that he had been giving most of the food they had been finding to the child. Gawain looked over to make sure he’d finished the bowl of porridge and was satisfied to find it empty. He clearly needed it.

Nimue turned up several minutes later with Arthur and Pym in tow. She would have preferred to also be able to call on Merlin and Morgana, but no one had been able to confirm if they were even alive, let alone where they were. So this was her council. Gawain’s tent was sorely lacking in chairs compared to her own, but she didn’t think this would take too long. After trying and failing to get Squirrel to leave, she didn’t waste any time in getting to the point.

“So, you’re Fey?” she confirmed, a little hazy on the memory of what had happened in the middle of last night.  
“I am,” Lancelot nodded, and it was the first time Gawain had heard him claim his identity so explicitly. “Father Carden realised I was… useful to him. He let me live when he torched my village, across the sea from here, but I had to pay for it by doing what I did. I was never allowed to forget that the devil lived inside me.”

Nimue nodded slowly, trying to assess his character as well as the veracity of his words. He seemed like a hollow shell of a man, a puppet more than a willing participant. But that didn’t wash his hands clean of the blood that stained them.

“You are at least partly responsible for the deaths of the kin of most of the people here,” she reminded him, unwavering.

He didn’t flinch, but cast his eyes down in shame.  
“Yes.”

“Including mine.”  
“Yes.”  
“And now you want to defect to our side of the war?”

When worded like that it seemed like such a big decision, but he could see Squirrel over Nimue’s shoulder, sat on the end on Gawain’s bed and watching with careful appraisal as the adults conversed. Anyone who thought that child, any child, should be cut down in cold blood could not possibly be fighting for the right side. And once the thread of immorality started to unravel, it turned out to be a long one.

“I cannot make up for what I have done, I will never be able to. But they’re wrong. The Red Paladins and the Vatican. They want to see the Fey extinguished and I feel it in my blood that every word they say is a lie,” Lancelot explained. “I can help you. I will turn over everything I know, all the plans they had last time I was privy to them. And if you want my sword in battle then that is yours too. There is nothing I ask for in return, but I pledge myself to you and your people. My people.”

All eyes in the room were on him, each offering a different expression. Nimue’s were busy in a careful assessment, Squirrel’s were hopeful, Arthur’s were harsh and calculating. The auburn-haired girl he didn’t recognise but had heard called Pym was staring at him like he wasn’t quite real. Gawain’s was the only expression he couldn’t read.

“You can stay,” Nimue decided.  
“Is that wise,” Arthur hissed, hoping for a different outcome. “I still have the scar he left across my chest.”

Tacitly ignoring answering the human directly, she addressed herself to Lancelot as she laid out her thoughts.  
“We won’t be returning your swords, at least for now. And I do expect you to tell me as much as you can about the Red Paladins and their plans. I cannot let you leave but I will not kill you, and since you are Fey, this is your home. Until we can all find a better one again.”

Gawain wasn’t about to argue with her, but he couldn’t help but find fault in the simplicity of her words. Not everyone was going to look past the Monk’s past transgressions, no matter how coerced, so willingly.

“They’ll kill him out there. I had a gaggle of Tusks outside my tent looking for blood first thing this morning. Word will get around,” he pointed out.

“This evening at the Gathering, I’ll make an announcement. Lay down some rules. For now, he stays here. The Fey respect you enough that you’re our best bet at keeping him alive.”  
“Fine,” Gawain agreed.  
Nimue was surprised, like she’d expected more resistance from him, but she quickly moved past it.

“Good.” She turned back to Lancelot. “For today at least, until I can speak to everyone, you should stay out of sight and out of the way. And you need to lose the cloak.”

Lancelot tensed only infinitesimally, but Gawain caught the movement all the same. He knew that was a bigger ask than Nimue was aware of, that the cloak seemed to be more than an item of clothing to the Monk, and he worked quickly to find a way around him having to give it up if it provided him some level of comfort in the midst of a situation that had to be anything but for him.

“That’s a bad idea,” he cautioned. “The mark of the Red Paladins in his hair underneath will be just as poorly received. Or do you not recall the issue of the cross on the door in Gramaire?”

It was as true as it was useful and Nimue frowned, unsure of the next move.

“Let me see?” Pym spoke up.

She’d been keeping silent, still rather afraid of the nightmarish figure of the Weeping Monk, and had said her piece to Nimue in hushed whispers on the walk over instead. She wasn’t in favour of spilling any more blood if they didn’t have to, but she didn’t pretend to be adept at making tactical decisions. Hairstyling, though, she could do.

Lancelot seemed wary but these people were supposed to be trusting him and that wasn’t going to happen if he didn’t comply with their terms. Four Fey folk and one human who had allied himself with them, who were all used to Fauns and Tusks and Moon Wings, weren’t going to take issue with some tear-stained birthmarks. He pushed back his hood and turned, showing the back of his head. The hair would grow back, that he knew, since it was always having to be re-shaved, but he was sure the cross would never truly heal. It was too deep a scar.

Pym hummed to herself, pulling Lancelot over to stand next to his mattress so she could stand on it to better reach his hair. She pulled out the strap of leather he was holding it back with and found it was quick and easy work to plait the Monk’s hair back over the cross, hiding it carefully from view. She tied it off and admired her work.

“There. No one will be able to see it, and it will be easier as it grows back,” she promised, getting down from the mattress and returning to Nimue’s side.

With his cloak pulled down and his hair tied back like that, the Weeping Monk lost much of his ominous air, but he was still unmistakeable, the birthmarks clear on his face. And he looked uncomfortable, unused to being out of the shadows he preferred to dwell in. Gawain tried again to push his point.

“His eyes still mark who he is, what good is getting rid of the cloak?” he argued.

“I’m not trying to hide who he is, I won’t lie to the people here. But the news might be better received if he didn’t look like a harbinger of death,” Nimue explained, crossing her arms.

“But-”

The more Gawain protested, the more obvious it became to Lancelot what exactly he was trying to do. He was touched by the effort, but it was clearly a futile endeavour and the Monk didn’t want to cause a rift between him and Nimue for his kindness.  
“It’s fine, Green Knight,” he muttered, interrupting. He was going to have to get used to people staring one way or another, if he was going to stick around the Fey camp. “I only have one question,” he asked Nimue. “What happened to Goliath? My horse.”  
“He is being looked after in our stables,” she promised.

“Thank you,” he sighed, relieved. The animal had served him well and he’d be saddened to have lost him. “In which case, I swear myself to your cause, Fey Queen. And I seek to repair as much of the damage I have caused to your side of the fight as I can.”

“Born in the dawn,” Nimue prompted.

“To pass in the twilight,” Lancelot finished the old Fey saying.

It had only left his tongue a handful of times in sincerity, but each time it did he felt the words with more and more conviction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I basically came out of fanfic retirement for this just because I wanted there to be more of this ship out there and y'all are making my little gay heart so happy with your comments <3 Thank you for reading this self-indulgent nonsense.  
> Also if anyone wants to compare Cursed notes at any time then hmu bc no one I know has finished watching it and I have many thoughts both about whether Gawain is actually dead, and on the mirroring of Gawain and Lancelot throughout the show which honestly I'm just so here for.


	6. Chapter 6

With the help of the collection of maps they could round up, Lancelot sat in front of Nimue, Gawain and Arthur and went through everything he could remember that could be useful to them. Pym had taken Squirrel out to show him round the camp, despite his protests that he wanted to be involved in the strategising, luring him away with the reminder that there were so many people who didn’t even know he was alive and would want to see him. He didn’t miss a whole lot, in Gawain’s opinion. It was certainly more information than they would have had without Lancelot there but with no idea what had gone on in the camp once everything had gone to hell, they didn’t even know who was in charge anymore. Plans could have changed entirely. It was a help, but it wasn’t the magical answer that was going to win them a war.

By the time Lancelot was getting to the end of what he knew, Pym and Squirrel had returned with a basket from the kitchens. Fresh bread and churned butter and some dried fish. It wasn’t fine dining but it would make a decent lunch. There had been a mutual but unspoken decision made that Lancelot should stay in Gawain’s tent at least until Nimue could make her speech, so while everyone else left for the dining tent, Gawain and Lancelot stayed behind. The Green Knight wasn’t totally convinced no one else was going to come looking for blood and besides, he didn’t really want to leave Lancelot to eat his food alone, and only partly because he wanted to make sure he actually ate something. As it was, he wasn’t touching the basket.

“I’m not hungry,” he argued, when he saw Gawain watching him.  
“And I’m not convinced. Eat,” Gawain shot back, but he softened when he saw the look in Lancelot’s eye. “We have plenty of food here. I promise you’re not taking it out of the mouth of anyone else, nor are we all about to starve. You don’t need to punish yourself, not like this.”

Lancelot stared back in surprise; he hadn’t realised he was being quite so transparent. He was indeed still hungry. The meals he had been given so far had only served to remind the empty void of his stomach what food tasted like, not to fill it. The smell of the freshly baked bread had been making it ache and, given such explicit permission, he reached for a roll. Satisfied, Gawain took his own share of the food and sat on his mattress to eat.

Since Nimue had wrapped up her reconnaissance session, that left them with an afternoon to lie low until the Gathering, when as many of the Fey as were free congregated at the centre of the camp to hear any news or updates. Giving Lancelot a tour of the camp, as Pym had done for Squirrel, was out of the question. Gawain could talk down a handful of his people seeking revenge, but not an entire village. Which meant either staying cooped up inside, or leaving the confines of the camp.

“You should come to the river to wash,” Gawain suggested, only realising exactly what he’d said when Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “That was not meant to be the insult it sounded. I only meant it might be nice to get clean. It’s enough of a walk from here that no one would notice you, and it might be good to leave this tent. I know I miss the sun.”

The idea of being able to properly wash off the blood from his body and his clothes sounded heavenly, and his undershirt was stiff with sweat from the journey to the camp. Lancelot didn’t even think about protesting, even as they finished up their food and Gawain tied his sheath around his waist so he could carry a sword and shouldered a bow.

“Just in case,” he explained. “I’m not your jailer.”

Sneaking out of the tent felt like some children’s game, lifting up the canvas at the back so they could duck out into the woods and get lost amongst the trees before anyone from the camp could see them. Lancelot found himself smiling at the absurdity of it all.

It was only once they joined up with the path that would take them down to the river that Lancelot began to actually think this through. Bathing was an activity that usually involved the removal of clothes and he thought of Gawain seeing the scars that consumed his back and had to stop himself from running in the opposite direction. The urge to draw his cloak tightly around himself burned, but it had remained on the floor of the tent. As he tried to think up reasons they should turn around, or at least that he couldn’t wash in the river, a streak of red caught Lancelot’s eye. It was such a tiny movement, maybe a hundred paces off deeper into the woods, that most people might mistake it for some kind of bird. But he knew the woods, and he knew that exact shade of red all too well.

Acting on instinct, Lancelot lunged over to pull Gawain’s sword from its sheath and took off between the trees. He heard the yell from behind him, but there was no time to explain.

Gawain saw the flash of a red cloak, vanishing into the words as quickly as it had appeared, only once he began running after Lancelot. It occurred to him that perhaps this was a signal, a way for the Weeping Monk to return to his Red brothers after having spent a night gathering valuable intel from the Fey camp, but he didn’t want to believe it. As he ran, he nocked an arrow, but the Paladins, if indeed it was them, weren’t within range and he couldn’t bring himself to aim for Lancelot. He had to have faith this wasn’t a trap.

It was another two hundred yards before Lancelot caught up to the Paladins, disappearing between some foliage and out of Gawain’s sight. When the metallic reverberation of swords meeting rang out, followed hastily by several groans of pain, Gawain pushed himself to run faster, ignoring the way his legs burned. Practically skidding into the small clearing, only seconds after the Monk, he found Lancelot calmly cleaning blood off the blade of the sword against some moss growing on the side of a tree. The bodies of three dead Paladins lay in the grass at his feet.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want them to get away. If word got back to the Red Paladins about the location of this camp then they could surround us and burn us all in our beds before we knew what was happening,” Lancelot explained, handing back the sword. Neither of them acknowledged he himself had done that to countless Fey before, nor that he had so freely referred to himself as one of them now.

Gawain couldn’t help but stare, marvelling at the speed and efficiency of it all. He had been ten seconds behind at most and yet Lancelot had fought an entire battle. 

“You’re good,” he breathed, impressed “Really good.”

He’d fought the Weeping Monk himself before, but it still baffled him to see his abilities. Lancelot wasn’t even breathing any deeper than usual, despite the exertion of the run and the fight. He was, however, putting an awful lot of weight on the tree he leaned against, wincing a little whenever he moved. Whatever injuries he’d brought to camp and supressed the pain of for this little skirmish, he was feeling now.

“Come on, we should probably get back to camp. Nimue needs to hear how close we came to being spotted,” Gawain encouraged.

If Red Paladin scouts were getting this close, it was time to talk about the realities of their situation. They could be looking at moving everyone on again. Even the thought of it was enough to give Gawain a stress ulcer, but they had to do what was right for their people. If that meant coordinating the safe travel of hundreds of people, then so be it.

The walk back was slower, on account of Lancelot trying and failing to hide the fact he was limping. Gawain kept his pace slow to match and repeatedly had to bite back offers to help support Lancelot’s weight. He’d half-carried many a fellow soldier in the field before, but this felt different somehow. And even if he had offered, he was certain the Monk would have refused.

They were close enough to camp to hear the Fey folk through the trees when Lancelot stopped, dropping to his knees with a hiss of pain. For a moment Gawain thought his legs had given up on him, but then he watched as he pushed back some leaves to reveal a crop of large, dark berries. As he reached out to pick them he caught sight of some Paladin blood that had splattered across his hand and wiped it off on his tabard, before collecting a small handful of the blackberries, wrapping them in a large leaf, and pocketing them.

“For Percival,” Lancelot explained, like it was nothing. “They’re his favourite and it won’t be long before they’re out of season.”

That held as much surprise for Gawain as the swordsmanship had, rendering him speechless. This man who had burned villages, slaughtered innocent Fey and helped plot the extinction of their race had pushed aside his pain to defend a people he had sworn himself to not hours ago, and was stopping to collect fruit for a Fey child just to make him smile. How cruelly had Father Carden warped his mind to corrupt someone who seemed so innately good? What had they done to him to take such advantage of his loyalty, to poison his thoughts? And how much was it going to take to truly rid him of all of that damage? Gawain had no idea of the answers to the questions now racing through his mind, but he knew he wanted to help. They couldn’t bring back the Fey who had died in this war, but there was one fallen brother who was within reach.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long one! Sorry, there wasn't really a better place to break it up.

Rather than head back to his own tent, Gawain smuggled Lancelot into Nimue’s. She listened carefully to the report of the Red Paladins in the wood and seemed to slump under the weight of the added stress. When she headed out to find Kaze and Arthur to bring them up to speed, Gawain turned to focus his attention on Lancelot, who had hunched over himself in one of the chairs pushed against the side of the tent.

“You’re hurt,” he stated, not phrasing it as a question.  
“It’s nothing,” Lancelot muttered, his head bowed and his hand clutched to his side.

Gawain shook his head incredulously. No one, not even the most oblivious individual, could have possibly believed that claim, so he didn’t give it the respect of acknowledgment.  
“Will you still not go to a healer?” he pushed, hopeful.

“I said it’s nothing,” Lancelot forced, through gritted teeth.  
“Will you let me look?” Gawain asked gently, and that had those eyes shooting up to meet his, surprised. “I may be no healer but I’ve seen my fair share of battle wounds and you pick things up. I might be able to help.”

Lancelot had to admit that he had grown to trust Gawain in the short time he’d been at the camp, and the feeling seemed to be at least somewhat mutual. If he had to show his injuries to anyone, he’d prefer it to be him, and clearly he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Not here,” he said, eyes on the entrance to the tent that would soon bring Nimue and her friends back. He didn’t want to be a circus animal on display to a crowd.

The answer wasn’t a no, and Gawain was going to take what he could. Lancelot seemed in pain, but not on death’s door; waiting a little longer to check on his injuries wouldn’t kill him and if it was the only way Lancelot was going to let him help then so be it. The plan was to stay in Nimue’s tent until her speech at the Gathering in a few hours, after which it would be public knowledge that the Weeping Monk was at the camp and theoretically safe for him to move around. Once they had returned to Gawain’s tent later, he was going to revisit the line of questioning.

It wasn’t long before Nimue’s tent was a hive of activity, with disputes over maps and viable travel routes and potential allies. Gawain was as involved as usual, stating his thoughts and opinions freely and with conviction. But every now and then he found himself looking over to check on the man in the corner, who stayed silent and kept out of the way. It annoyed him to be so distracted, but he reasoned with himself that Lancelot was a powerful ally with the easy potential to be their greatest warrior. Worrying about him was only tied to a desire to see his people survive.

It was a couple of hours into planning that Lancelot seemed to recover enough of his focus to start to pay attention to what was going on at the table. He dragged himself to his feet and joined the group without invitation, heavily leaning his weight on the back of Nimue’s chair.

“You don’t want to do that,” he said quietly, looking over the plans they’d mapped out so far and gesturing to one specific part. “That path wouldn’t be safe.”

Everyone turned to look at him, and there was a moment where he was entirely expecting to be told to leave them alone. Only then Nimue spoke up.

“What would you do?” she asked, seemingly genuine in trusting his input.

Gawain quickly gave up his own chair, dragging over another for himself, so Lancelot didn’t have to stand as he started to explain a small edit he would make to the plan to ensure a greater level of safety for the Fey if they had to travel.

By the time the evening’s Gathering was due to begin, plans had been drawn up that everyone was confident in, or as confident as they could be. They had agreed not to flee immediately, but to be ready to do so if it came to a hasty retreat, or if any further Red Paladins were spotted. Guard shifts around the perimeter of the camp and out into the woods beyond were increased, and discussions planned with the Moon Wings to enquire about the possibility of air surveillance.

It was decided that it would be best for Lancelot not to be present at Nimue’s speech, just in case there was widespread anger, and he watched as everyone other than Gawain left the tent to try to secure his safety at the camp.

“You’re not going?” he asked the man who stayed.

Gawain just shrugged.

“We’ll be able to hear from here,” he explained. “And as good as a fighter as you are, Ash Man, you’re in no state to battle an entire camp of disgruntled Fey, if it comes to that.”

“And you are?” Lancelot raised an eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth curved up to reveal his teasing.

Any protests Gawain might have were interrupted by the start of the speech, and he moved to the entrance of the tent to push back the canvas so he could get a view of the crowd to gauge their reaction.

“We are at war,” Nimue began, “against a lot of people. It’s easy to put blame on an individual – the Red Paladin you saw torch your home as your ran, or the Raider who shot an arrow into your shoulder. But we have to remember that those we are truly at war with are higher up, further away, and the influence they have over their foot soldiers can be crushing. For many of you the final memories of your villages are marked with the presence of a man referred to as the Weeping Monk, who worked on the side of Father Carden and the Red Paladins. And, since rumour is a powerful thing, I’m sure most of you are already aware that the same man has come to our camp, bringing back one of our own we thought lost, and has surrendered his connections to the Red Paladins. He has also revealed his identity as Fey, and thus I have made the decision to allow him to stay at this camp and provide assistance to our cause.”

Gawain watched as ripples of confusion, shock and anger rolled out through the gathered Fey and his hand went to the blade at his hip instinctively. But Nimue wasn’t having any of it, raising her voice to speak above the chatter.

“The Weeping Monk is under the protection of the Fey Queen. Anyone who disagrees with that can come directly to me. I will not hesitate to come down harshly on anyone who seeks to defy that order.”

With those final words, she brought the day’s Gathering to a close and returned to her tent, offering a forced smile to the two men who sheltered there.

“Thank you,” Lancelot said, as soon as she walked in. “This won’t endear you to them, so thank you.”

“It’s just the right thing to do,” Nimue insisted. “But you’re welcome, nevertheless.”

They lingered only long enough for the crowd in the clearing to disperse, before Gawain decided it was best to get this over with. His hand didn’t leave the pommel of his sword as they made the short trip to his own tent, and neither of them could pretend not to see the stares, and often glares, that Lancelot got as they passed. No one, so close to Nimue’s speech, offered up any verbal threats, but Gawain could see the hatred in the eyes of many they encountered. He only hoped Lancelot managed to convince the Fey at large of his good intentions, before that hatred bubbled up into something physical and dangerous. It was a relief to get inside the tent and to secure the tent flap behind them.

“Okay,” Gawain began, before he could lose his nerve. “Shirt off. I’m taking a look at those injuries. You’re no good to the Fey dead.”

Lancelot knew he didn’t have much energy left to protest and, against his better judgement, he begrudgingly started to undress. It was only when he had forgone his tabard and the gambeson he wore underneath and was left only in his undershirt that he hesitated. The marks on his back might not be what Gawain was looking for but it would nigh on impossible to hide them.

Sensing his reluctance, Gawain offered what he hoped was reassurance.

“I have been a sailor and a soldier. I can guarantee you there is nothing I haven’t seen.”

Lancelot knew his cheeks were flushed red at the insinuation, and he really hoped the light was dim enough that it wasn’t obvious. Careful to keep his back to the wall of the tent, he pulled off his shirt. The hasty wrapping he’d done himself on the road were barely staying put, especially after his fight with the Paladins in the woods, and when he pulled them away he was disheartened to find several of the wounds showed fresh blood, ripped open again in the exertion.

The injuries were enough to make Gawain wince, several deep and bordering on needing stitches. There were bruises, most past the stage of looking their worst and healing up to a sickly yellow, accompanied by a scattering of lacerations likely done by blade. It was the plethora of puncture wounds, numerous and deep, that he really didn’t like the look of. Once he had finished taking in the state of Lancelot’s chest, a task which did not escape him as entirely intimate, he fought back a blush as he cleared his throat to ask a question.

“Anything lower?”  
“No,” Lancelot lied, but there was only so far he would go.

The majority of the injuries on his legs had been bruises, now yellowing, or damage to his ankles that had healed enough during the long horse ride that he could now walk. Anything else was minor – some shallow gouges and scratches. They would be fine under the amateur wrappings he’d applied himself on the journey.

Gawain wasn’t buying it but he wasn’t going to argue. He understood that he was asking a lot from the man as it was. Turning his attention back to the injuries he could see, he narrowed his eyes as he looked at a long silver scar that seemed to curve round Lancelot’s waist from his back.

“What’s that?” he asked, curious.  
“Nothing,” Lancelot protested, but he couldn’t stop Gawain as he took a step round so he could see his back.

His gasp made it clear that he’d discovered the full extent of the injuries to the Weeping Monk’s body. There were puncture wounds and bruising on his back, too, but they lay on top of something far worse. A deep crosshatch of slashes, violent and unyielding as they had carved up his skin. Gawain felt sick from the sight of it, imagining how much pain they must have caused, must still cause.  
“By the gods, how did they-” he began, but Lancelot anticipated the question.

“It wasn’t the Trinity Guard,” he explained quietly, ashamed.  
“Carden?”

“No.” This guessing game could go on forever and it wasn’t going to be fun for either of them so, with his eyes on the floor, he mumbled his admittance. “I did it.”

For a second, Gawain didn’t reply, clearly expecting the words to be some sort of sick joke, but the silence made it clear they were not.

“Why?” he managed, baffled.

Lancelot just let out a single, bitter laugh.  
“He told me the devil lived inside me. That I was damned, that my very existence made God want to weep,” he said, trying to control the waver in his voice.

Gawain looked closer at the marks, wincing at the fresh ones but almost as concerned by the spiderweb of scars beneath them. There was hardly an inch of his skin not marred. The network overlapped and intersected, some having long-healed into silvery streaks, others still red and raised.

“Some of these are old,” he commented.  
“Yes.”

“How old?”  
“I don’t remember,” Lancelot answered honestly. Since the first time they’d given him a sword, he guessed. It had always been something he’d been encouraged to do, to punish the evil that lurked inside of him.  
“And how new?” Gawain pushed.

“The day you were there,” Lancelot admitted.

He didn’t provide any more detail than that, not wanting to reveal the fact that the last set of the cuts had been to punish himself for the way his chest ached for the fate of the Green Knight, for the way Gawain’s words in the Kitchen were weighing heavy on his heart. He didn’t want to bestow that guilt.

There were no words for what Gawain was feeling, too many different emotions caught up in each other. He wanted revenge against the people who had made Lancelot feel it right to treat himself like that, was overcome with rage that was only tempered by his desire to protect. Revenge was going to be hard to obtain, not least because Nimue had beheaded the man responsible for the majority of it all, but Gawain could still help with the aftermath.

“You need something, some kind of poultice,” he decided firmly. “I can get to the healers’ tent and back in sixty seconds. Will you be alright?”

He was banking on no one being brave enough to defy the Fey Queen’s order so quickly after her speech.

“I’ve won fights with no weapon of my own, with my hands tied. I can hold my own for a few minutes,” Lancelot shrugged.

“Show off,” Gawain said, but he was smiling as he ducked out of the tent to hurry to the healers.

He practically ran there and back, rushing his way through an description of what he wanted and vague explanation of why. Thankfully, the healers trusted him and questioned him little over his bizarre manner and he got back to his tent to find Lancelot exactly where he’d left him. He handed over three small jars, all containing liniments and balms that would help, and a stack of wrappings.

“To stop infection, to numb pain, and for healing scars,” he explained, pointing at each jar in turn and clearly repeating memorised information. “I can… or do you want…”

He barely even knew what he was asking but he knew he wouldn’t protest if Lancelot asked him to help with the salves.

“I can do it,” Lancelot said, uncomfortable with the idea of being touched so much by someone else.

Sitting himself down on his mattress, Lancelot turned the jars over in his hands to inspect the handwritten labels. Fey remedies were supposed to be as evil as the beings themselves which, Lancelot decided as Gawain brought him a bowl of water and some cloths he could clean his wounds with, wasn’t really all that evil after all.

It was a lengthy task to clean up and dress all of his injuries, and Lancelot appreciated the fact that Gawain was doing his best not to stare. As he worked, he brought up a topic that had been bothering him since he’d arrived.

“Last I saw you before this camp, you were…” he trailed off, not wanting to describe it.

“Beaten to a bloody pulp by your Red Brothers?” Gawain filled in, nonchalantly.

“Yes. But you got out.”

Gawain knew what he was asking. Even with the work of healers, he was in far more of one piece than he should have been given the state the Paladins had left him in.  
“The Hidden saw it fit to let me live when Nimue asked. I don’t know why, I presume they’ve something different planned for me. They have a sense of humour though – gave me just enough of my strength left to get out of there but still left me with most of the more minor injuries. Apparently I had a lesson to learn about not letting myself get captured and tortured by the enemy. The healers here have helped with what remained,” he explained, turning to face Lancelot. “You know, the healers. The people actually trained and gifted in medicine.”

His good-natured teasing earned him an unimpressed look.  
“I am aware of them, yes,” Lancelot said bluntly. Then he got quieter. “I’m sorry they hurt you. I should have tried to get you out.”  
“I’m glad it was Squirrel you saved instead,” Gawain promised, trying to be reassuring.

Lancelot had largely finished up with the wounds on his chest and now considered the ones on his back. Part of him was still shouting that he shouldn’t patch them up, should allow the pain to linger like he deserved, but he was sure Gawain would not readily take that as an excuse. So he reached back to try and feel for the worst of the scars and couldn’t help the hitch in his breath as he pulled on the wounds he’d already dealt with. Several more attempts at different angles provided no easier way to treat the injures himself and he had all but given up when Gawain was kneeling beside him, a hand on his shoulder and another held out in request for the jar.  
Defeated, Lancelot closed his eyes for a long second before passing over the jar he was holding and turning, hugging his knees as close to his chest as he could without disturbing the injuries there.

The swishing sound of a rag through water was his only warning before the damp cloth was gently passed over his back to clean away the blood that remained. It was incredibly slow and calm, worlds away from the power Lancelot had seen Gawain access when they’d fought. He’d been as worthy opponent as the Weeping Monk had ever had, and now here he was, treating him with such kindness that it was hard to bear.

Gawain’s fingers were gentle across his back, following the line of each scar with maddening attentiveness. He alternated between the jars of salves based on how old each scar was and what would best treat it, careful to keep his touches light so as not to cause any further pain. Lancelot fought to keep back the shudders that wanted to run through him at the contact; he hadn’t received attention like that since he could remember. In all the years of concrete memory he had access to, he’d only even been quickly patted on the back after a particularly successful slaughter. No one had ever taken the time to give him any kind of comfort. To his horror, real tears filled up in his eyes and fell to follow the marks. If Gawain noticed, he didn’t comment but only finished up and closed the lids on the jars, before returning to his own side of the tent to give Lancelot some space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I can remember neither the book or show gives a reason for the Monk's scars, but it looks to me like a form of self-flagellation, which was specifically done to drive out evil. Based on what we know about Lancelot, that seemed like a valid interpretation.
> 
> Also - Gawain/Lancelot songs:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5A__1-QK4w  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skhDdaGss-c  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dBINh_AEgGI  
> No, I don't take criticism (but I am a theatre nerd)


	8. Chapter 8

When Gawain next had a minute to talk to Nimue alone, he made good on his promise of relaying Lancelot’s wishes to be allowed to help with the farming work, but also cautioned her that he needed easy work for at least a while, so his injuries could truly heal up. Nimue had promised that she’d see what she could see what she could do in the long term, but considering he wasn’t up to hard labour and with how far the small farming land they were starting to cultivate with quick-growing crops was, it seemed more sensible to keep Lancelot close to the camp. It was her hope that if people actively saw him as one of them, they’d be more inclined to accept that he truly had changed and taken up a new path in the fight. Gawain had to go back to guard duties and training up some new soldiers, so Nimue assigned Lancelot whatever jobs needed doing around the camp. He’d helped with planting new medicinal herbs in the little garden behind the healers’ tent, been out with the foragers to put food on the tables, and helped with laundry all within a week, and she’d never seen him complain.

Happy as he had been for the short break, Gawain was glad to go back to his regular jobs. It helped to put some distance between him and Lancelot, and he was pretty sure that they had been growing entirely too close. He still looked for him at meal times, making sure that no one had yet decided to slit his throat in an act of revenge, and they still shared a tent, but Gawain was sure time away was doing him good.

Only then he’d look over sometimes and see Lancelot surrounded by at least three or four children, usually including Squirrel, and his heart would do something funny. They’d be practically hanging off him, listening to stories that Gawain could only assume were fictitious, or at the very least heavily edited. He couldn’t imagine that the Weeping Monk would be able to make children giggle like that with stories from his own past.

Children forgave easier than adults. Even as he managed to win over the little ones, Lancelot still got glares everywhere he went. People spat at his feet or moved away when he walked past, but the more he worked with each individual person at camp, the more they slowly began to accept he was no longer an enemy to them. Still, sometimes it all got too much and he couldn’t take the weight of the glares on top of his own crippling self-loathing and it was easier to take a moment away from it all. Which is why he found himself hiding out in Nimue’s tent on one of his breaks, with only the auburn-haired girl for company.

She was sewing something deftly, humming to herself and barely even acknowledging his existence, which he hadn’t minded so much but he was curious about her. They’d never really spoken.

“Pym. That’s what they call you, yes?” he asked, breaking the silence.  
“It is,” Pym nodded, not breaking a stride in her sewing or even looking up. He didn’t think she was intending to be rude, just focused.  
“Why?”

That earned him a snort of laughter.

“On account of it being the name my mother gave me, I presume,” she shrugged with a smile, putting down one finished piece of clothing and picking up another to start on.  
“Just Pym?” he questioned. It sounded more like a nickname than anything else.  
“We can’t all have the grand names of those destined to be skilled fighters, Lancelot,” she teased. “Some of us have to be named as mending women.”

She looked up at him then, still smiling, so it was clear he hadn’t offended her.  
“Is that what you do here?”  
“Sometimes. These belong to some of our hunters and they were looking a little rough so I offered to patch up the holes.” She held up a shirt to show him a tear from a thorn, but she could sense that his question wasn’t quite so simple and she answered the one she assumed he was asking. “There are a lot of people here who probably deserve the position I have at Nimue’s side more than I do. I’ve been her friend since we were babies so there’s nowhere else I’d rather be but I didn’t earn it. I can’t fight, I don’t know anything about how to win a war. So I try to help anywhere I can, to make up for it.”

That was something Lancelot could understand – trying to prove yourself worthy. He’d been doing it all his life, first to prove himself exceptional above his race and worthy of salvation and now to rejoin them and atone for all he’d done.

“Do you want to learn to fight?” he asked.

“I can barely even lift a sword, so unless I can learn to kill my opponents with a needle I don’t think that’s wise,” she joked.

“You don’t have to be the strongest to win a fight. If you can be the quickest or the most cunning, you have just as much of an advantage,” he said, speaking from experience. Of course, it helped to be all of them.

“Zero for three, I’m afraid.”  
He scrutinised her for a second. She might not be the best at hand-to-hand combat, but from what he could tell she was perceptive and dextrous, from the quick work she was doing even as she talked.

“How about an archer? Then you often only need to be the furthest away,” he joked himself, but he meant it. “I hear Faun bows are the best in the world.”  
“When there’s a Faun archer holding one, definitely,” Pym conceded, “but I’m Sky Folk. Like Nimue.”

Like Gawain, Lancelot’s mind helpfully supplied.  
“If you ever wanted lessons, I would be happy to give them,” he offered. He was not unaware that his accuracy with a bow was on par with his lethality with a sword.

Pym turned to look at him, surprised by his sincerity, and found herself nodding.  
“Thank you. I’ll consider it,” she said, before holding up a pair of trousers with a hole in the knee. “Now, these belong to a boy who used to tease Nimue relentlessly. Do I darn them in pink?”

-

“Gods,” Gawain swore in shock as soon as he walked into the tent fifteen minutes later on the hunt for Nimue, almost certain his heart had stopped beating for a second. Because Lancelot was holding a baby.

He was walking round the tent with Akitu, the Tusk girl born just days before he’d arrived, bouncing her gently up and down and singing softly to her in Old Fey. Gawain recognised the words but not the song itself, and it seemed like it could be an Ash Folk lullaby.

“Her mother needed half an hour to wash up and do some laundry, so we’re babysitting,” Pym said cheerfully from where she sat surrounded by sewing. “Well, I was babysitting but she wouldn’t stop crying and babies are _really_ loud and I really don’t think she likes me. But she likes Lancelot.”

Based on the way Akitu was reaching chubby little arms up towards his face, she did indeed like Lancelot. And Gawain couldn’t exactly blame her – he was really trying not to be a hypocrite. It was a sign of a poor leader.

“Maybe she just wanted to see the world from a little higher up,” Lancelot teased Pym, gently tapping Akitu’s nose.

Gawain had to sit down. He wasn’t sure his legs were going to be able to support him much longer, and he’d forgotten every word in the English language and why he’d come to the tent in the first place. He must have looked as stunned as he felt, because Pym’s hand was on his shoulder not moments later.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked, concerned.

“Fine,” he forced, having to put every bit of effort he could muster into that one word.

“Are you sure? I can get a healer if…”

Something seemed to dawn on her and she trailed off, an inquisitive look in her eyes. She turned to follow his gaze to see Akitu’s fist gripping tightly at Lancelot’s finger as he cooed at her, and when she turned back the curious look had given way to surprise, bewilderment, and glee.

“Oh,” she gasped. “You-”

“No,” Gawain protested. “Stop talking.”  
“How long have you-”

“I haven’t. I don’t,” he panicked.

Lancelot was distracted by the baby in his arms, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tune into their conversation at any time and Gawain really didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Or the right idea. Just any idea. Only Pym clearly wasn’t buying it.

“Oh you absolutely do,” she grinned.

“Leave it alone,” Gawain ordered, collecting himself.

Pym had to bite back a smile but she gave him a nod and he let out a sigh of relief. Whatever this was he was feeling, it wasn’t practical. It couldn’t be real. The world was in no state for him to be… Especially not for… It was a temporary lapse of judgement and he was going to get over it. Just possibly not while Lancelot was rocking a baby, because that just wasn’t fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay welcome to my symposium to discuss whether or not Gawain is really dead (no, I'm not kidding). This bears no importance for the story so feel free to ignore my ramblings entirely. But okay right so.  
> Gawain definitely did die, I will concede. He has the same wilted Fingers of Airimid on his face that we see Lenore with when she dies, the book refers to him explicitly as a dead body, and Nimue seems to think him dead in the show too. However, whether or not he stays dead is another question.  
> We know Nimue's magic basically works by her asking the Hidden nicely for things and then them deciding whether to do it or not, so it is entirely possible that while she couldn't save Dof, the Hidden might allow her to bring back Gawain since he is Fey and a key part of the resistance. The fancy foliage stuff (and big sonic boom) that appears clearly shows the presence of magic and, while the book does refer to it as a 'shroud' (which is a dead people thing, and could be used to argue that it's just a memorial rather than a resurrection), it only appears once Nimue is gone. Y'know, nicely setting up a season two scene where he makes a triumphant return from the grave.  
> It also bears mentioning that book Gawain loses an eye in the Red Paladin's torture, which tv show Gawain does not - possibly because they didn't want to commit to that level of special effects makeup for all of the rest of the series, should it renew.  
> Also as a final point I really like Gawain and I will be very mad if they kill him off.  
> Thank you for joining my symposium, feel free to let me know your thoughts. After all, even if Gawain is alive- perhaps he won't be quite the same...


	9. Chapter 9

Still not quite able to pull enough brain cells together to remember why it was he’d gone looking for Nimue in the first place, Gawain instead put himself through the unique torture of watching Lancelot with Akitu while Pym tried incredibly hard not to laugh at him.

“You’re a natural at that,” he commented, his mouth uncomfortably dry.

It was a bad idea. Lancelot turned to look at him, which was the absolute last thing he needed if he was going to retain what was left of his sanity, and there was a blank look in his eyes that worried Gawain more than he could say.

“That must be it.”

Lancelot didn’t want to tell the truth. He didn’t want to explain that more than once he’d been combing through a Fey village to look for hiding survivors, only to find a baby sleeping in a crib waiting for parents who were never coming back. The Red Paladins would have killed the child in a heartbeat, but Lancelot never could. So he’d take the baby out of its crib and tuck it into his arms, hiding it in the folds of his cloak and head out into the woods. If they started crying then he knew he’d have a problem – if he was caught then they’d probably both be dead - so he’d quickly learned how to rock them gently and sing lullabies he remembered from home, when he’d still had a home. There was always at least one survivor out there, despite their best efforts, and he would track them down and ignore the look of fear on their faces as he wordlessly handed them the child and disappeared back between the trees. So no, he was no stranger to calming a baby, but he wasn’t going to tell Gawain all of that.

“I should get back,” he said instead, turning to Pym. “I think I’m probably pushing the boundaries of what can be considered a reasonable lunch break. But she’s sleeping now so you should be fine until Renevre comes back for her.”

Little Akitu seemed like an amicable child and with any luck she wouldn’t give Pym any more trouble. Lancelot knelt down to put her in the moses basket she’d been brought in, tucking her under her little blanket.

“Thank you,” Pym smiled, grateful. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He’d certainly never been called that before and it was somewhat of a shock, but he fought through the wave of emotion it sent through him and climbed to his feet.

“I’ll see you at dinner?” he asked Gawain before he left, because that was their usual routine.

“Yes,” Gawain promised, despite himself.

He wondered if he’d be able to get over whatever stupid things he was feeling by then but the pang in his chest as he watched Lancelot go suggested that it was probably going to be a longer commitment.

Now that they were left alone, Gawain needed to make sure that Pym’s habit of being too insightful for her own good didn’t end disastrously. He knew girls gossiped and the last thing he wanted was news of his stupid crush being spread around the camp.

“Pym, listen to me. Whatever you think you saw, you need to forget it,” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down on account of the sleeping baby.

“And what do I think I saw?” she blinked innocently, purposefully infuriating.

“I have known you since the day you were born and I am asking you as a thank you for not throwing you in the river every time you screamed your lungs hoarse as a baby when I used to look after you, do not say anything to Nimue about this,” he insisted. He was not above calling in favours almost two decades old if he had to.

“About what?” she repeated again, an angelic smile taunting him.

“By the gods, Pym, please,” he begged.

Gawain never pleaded like that and it was clear to Pym that she was dangerously close to crossing a line. If he was that desperate to keep his little secret then she wouldn’t be the one to rat him out. She just wondered if he even knew that the reason he was so frantic was because he was trying to protect something so important to him.

“It’s okay. I won’t say anything to her,” she promised softly, but she put her sewing down and turned her full attention on him. This conversation wasn’t over. “Are _you_ going to say something to her?”

“No. There’s nothing to say.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“There can’t be anything to say,” he sighed.

Of all the people for him to develop feelings for, why did it have to be him. It would have been so much easier if it were someone, _anyone_ , else but even if it had been then it still wouldn’t be okay. There was a war he had to help win, people he couldn’t let down. The Hidden hadn’t brought him back from the dead only so he could waste his time feeling like the air had been stolen from his lungs every time one specific person looked at him. Whose life was that going to save?

Pym studied Gawain, tilting her head to try and understand him better. Did he really not think he deserved to be happy as much as the rest of them? Or perhaps it wasn’t that. Maybe he just didn’t think this was the kind of person he should be allowed to be happy with. After all, they’d both been so much younger when he’d left Dewdenn. She’d never seen him fall for anyone before and this might just be the first time he’d fallen for another man.

“It’s okay, Gawain. You do know that, right?” she encouraged gently, crossing the tent to sit beside him and put a hand on his arm.

“Yes. No. It’s not that I don’t think- I would just rather not talk about it,” he grumbled. It was too complicated to explain.

“How long has this been going on? I assume not long, since...”

Since he used to be our people’s worst nightmare. She wasn’t about to be the one to say it, but they both knew it was true. Still, she wasn’t going to judge Gawain for how he felt now. Lancelot had clearly committed to being a better person.

“Not long,” Gawain confirmed, still uncomfortable at having to talk. “And it’s going to go away.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll make it,” he said, more confident than he felt.

It was so much more difficult in reality. He knew the best thing would be to talk to Nimue about finding Lancelot another tent, maybe one of his own, so he didn’t have to be privy to the man when he was disgruntled in the soft morning light, not yet wanting to be woken up. But that wouldn’t solve the way he forgot how to breathe when Lancelot smiled at him, or how he wanted to take his hands every time they were doing something skilled and strong. Only they were likely going to be fighting alongside each other at some point and he couldn’t risk being distracted like that. So yes, this had to go away.

Whatever Pym wanted to say next was interrupted by a flustered Tusk woman rushing into the tent. Her clothes were splattered with water and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, but she seemed more relaxed than Gawain had seen her in days.

“Renevre,” he nodded in greeting, glad for the disruption. “How are things?”

“Better now I’ve been able to actually get some chores done,” she smiled. “I’ll take Akitu off your hands.”

She fussed over her sleeping child in the basket for a moment before extending a hand to Pym to squeeze her fingers.

“Thank you for this, you’re an angel. I hope she wasn’t any trouble?”

“None at all, ma’am,” Pym said brightly, standing to see the pair out. “Happy to help any time.”

If Lancelot was involved in that help, Gawain was going to make sure he was really far away.

“For what it’s worth,” Pym whispered conspiratorially, as she came back to gather up her mended clothes. “I think you’d make a cute couple.”

“You are incorrigible,” Gawain shouted after her, but she had darted out of the tent before he could complain too much.

Left alone, he dropped his head into his hands and groaned. This was the last thing he needed. Probably a preferable concern than some they’d had over the past months, but at least he knew how to deal with problems he could solve with a sword. This was something else entirely and the new terrain was impossible to navigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned how much I love Pym. Also, unrelated to this fic, but Pymue is the second best ship in Cursed and only partly because it clearly has the best ship name.


	10. Chapter 10

Lancelot didn’t think he deserved anything at the Fey camp. He had spent so long working to destroy these people’s homes and lives that it was hard to accept that he was allowed to take anything from them. Food, a roof over his head at night, a work break. Someone had to remind him, demand him, to take what was needed to survive and stay healthy. First it was Gawain, but then Pym and even Nimue, all checking he had allowed himself to eat, making sure he’d taken a day off or a lunch break. He’d been at the camp for over a month and he still found himself struggling with it. But the one thing he knew he didn’t deserve, more so above anything else, was to be loved.

He had never realised how much he had lacked it in his life, how hollow the words of anyone who had pretended to care about him had been, until he saw it everywhere. Fey couples who had been lucky enough that both of them had survived, or who had met during the war, were free with their affection around the camp. They held hands and shared smiles and kissed in greetings and farewells. Lancelot had never had that. And, even though he knew he hadn’t earned it, couldn’t have it, he wanted it more than he had ever expected he would. And to share it with one person in particular.

Gawain wasn’t promised to anyone and had no partner, of that Lancelot was sure. But he didn’t know where the man’s interests lay. And even if it were a possibility, he wasn’t foolish enough to let himself hope. Regardless of how kind Gawain had been to him, how the rivers of compassion in his soul seemed to run deeper than in anyone Lancelot had ever met, that wasn’t the kind of life he got to live. Relationships were for people whose backs weren’t covered in scar upon scar of self-hate.

Much as it weighed on him, Lancelot tried not to let himself think about it often. Only there were times he couldn’t help it and being sat around a Fey campfire surrounded by what seemed like nothing but couples was one of those times. He imagined what it would be like to have Gawain sat beside him, tracing patterns on the back of his hand or whispering in his ear, things that no one else needed to hear. It was a surprisingly pleasant fantasy, one he couldn’t deny he was finding himself craving more and more, and he was almost annoyed to find it interrupted by a familiar, cheery “hello!” as Pym took the empty seat beside him and scared away the figures of his imagination.

“You look sad,” she commented immediately, frowning as she tried to assess his face for clues as to why.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow, mocking her just ever so slightly.

“They’re not real tears.”  
“I know that,” Pym gave him a withering look. “Really, what is it?”

As much as she always seemed willing to listen, even when she had no practical helpful advice to give, Lancelot wasn’t comfortable with long speeches or explanations of his feelings. He’d been trained to speak only when spoken to, to know his place, and to surrender his own life wholly and devotedly to the cause of the Red Paladins. Crushes were alien to him and nothing made him more uncomfortable than feeling out of his depth. So instead of the truth, Pym got a vague lie.  
“Nothing,” he tried, but she clearly wasn’t buying that from the way she glared at him so he gave it another go. “Nothing you need to worry about.”  
“Why don’t you let me decide whether it’s something I need to worry about,” she pushed. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to guess.”  
“Pym-” Lancelot sighed, but she didn’t give much time to protest.

“Are you hurt?”  
“No.”  
“Are you worried about someone?”  
“No. I don’t want to play this game.”

Pym screwed up her nose as she ignored his complaints entirely and tried to think of reasons her friend could be upset. There hadn’t been any more Red Paladin sightings since the first once, and Lancelot seemed to be enjoying the jobs keeping him busy at camp as much as anyone could. It had to be something deeper, something without a concrete cause, else she would have noticed it sooner.

“Is it your family?” She guessed, but one stony look reminded her that his family were as dead as hers, and hardly a fresh wound. “Friends.” That had Lancelot scoffing derisively and she elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “Don’t do that, you have friends. You’ve got me, you’ve got Gawain.”

She was all ready to go on listing but there was something in Lancelot’s expression that had her stopping. It was a tiny flinch, heavily supressed but there nonetheless.

“It’s Gawain?” she asked tentatively, confused. She’d just seen him with Nimue and he’d seemed fine.  
“No,” Lancelot said through gritted teeth, too surprised by the accuracy of Pym’s guessing to believably keep up any kind of pretence.

“Please, you can’t lie to me,” she snorted. “What’s wrong with Gawain?”  
“Nothing. I have to go.”

Lancelot had had enough. The longer he sat and let her continue to analyse him, the more of him she seemed to be able to see and he needed to get away. But as he climbed to his feet to try and escape somewhere less stressful, Pym grabbed his arm.

“Do you… Do you like Gawain?” she questioned him gently, keeping her voice down so the words couldn’t spread to listening ears.

It was immediately clear the answer was yes. He didn’t deny it and a flash of panic flared up in his eyes, sparking in him the urge to run. Shaking her hand off, he turned and fled, trying to look as normal as possible to anyone he passed, in the direction of the tent he still shared with Gawain. He was praying to all the gods that the other man wouldn’t be there.

Pym was many things but prone to giving up, she was not. It only took her a second to decide to go after Lancelot. She wished she could just tell him what Gawain had begrudgingly admitted almost a month ago, but she’d promised to keep his secret and it just didn’t seem fair to do that to him. Which meant someone had to convince Lancelot to talk to the Green Knight of his own accord, and since she seemed to be the only one who knew they were both supressing their feelings, like how Nimue always tried to hide how tired she was, apparently that job was down to her. She really wasn’t sure she was the most qualified but clearly some people got magic swords to deal with and she got two self-repressive morons who were too busy being indignant towards their own feelings to recognise someone else’s.

It didn’t take her long to catch up to Lancelot, darting in front of him to stop him in his tracks.

“Just listen to me,” she insisted, before he could ask her to move. “Two minutes, please?”

He folded his arms, clearly wishing he was anywhere else, but he’d learned enough about Pym to know she was persistent. If two minutes of his attention got her to leave this alone forever, then so be it.

“Have you ever had a crush before?” Pym asked, trying to be sensitive. “I mean I feel like the Red Paladins probably aren’t especially welcoming when it comes to…”

“What’s your point?” Lancelot hissed, neither confirming nor denying the fact that what he felt for Gawain could probably be accurately labelled with the asinine term ‘crush’.

“I just want you to know that I accept you,” she promised, in case he’d been waiting to hear it all his life. “And Gawain would, too. If you ever decide to talk to him about it.”  
It was as close to admitting the truth of what she knew as she was willing to get, but it only served to make Lancelot blush a dark red, his eyes going wide. She got the sense that he wasn’t all that likely to be confiding in the other man any time soon. When he pushed past her again, she let him go. Clearly relationship counsellor wasn’t her strong suit.

As Lancelot strode off, he felt his eyes prick with tears. No one had ever so much as suggested to him that he was allowed anything beyond the work he did for someone else. He’d accepted that his work for Father Carden had been cruel and inhumane exploitation, designed to break him and rebuilt him into something monstrous, but he’d considered his work in the Fey camp to be his atonement. It was the least he could do. Living a life of his own beside that was a new thought entirely. A life he could fill with friends and compassion, things that made him smile or sent beams of warmth through the cracks that still remained in his soul. He would be lying to himself to suggest that he didn’t want Gawain in that imagined life. Whether he was a friend or something else was entirely down to how generous he let his imagination be, but he certainly never wanted to lose him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters left, I think! Possibly three if the next one gets really long.


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn’t that Lancelot was avoiding Pym, exactly, but he could feel her eyes on him whenever they were in Nimue’s tent or eating meals. On some level he understood that she was doing it because she cared and was worried about him but that didn’t make him any more fond of the attention. Terrified she would want to continue their previous conversation if they found themselves alone, he made sure that opportunity never arrived.

Rather than spending his work break in Nimue’s tent, Lancelot instead took his small food parcel to the strip of space between the back of the tents and the first of the trees. It was quiet and peaceful and, while he didn’t find himself hating life in the Fey camp, it made a nice change to get a moment to himself. That peace lasted all of ten minutes, just enough time for him to finish his food, before he heard soft footsteps heading between the tents in his direction.

Lancelot was on his feet before he could help it, unable to turn off the instinctive impulse to defend himself against an unknown intruder. While most of the Fey now seemed to tolerate him, if nothing else, there was always the chance that someone out there still wanted revenge. Ambushing him unarmed and unprepared would be the best shot they had. Only when a figure stepped out into the open space, it was one far too familiar to be wishing him harm.

“Do you have a minute?” Gawain asked, holding something behind his back.

There was never a time Lancelot could imagine not being able to make time for him, not with how much he’d helped him. Whatever Gawain needed, he would do it without question. But when Lancelot nodded, Gawain held out what he’d been hiding, and it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. A sword, glinting in the afternoon sun, was tossed to him, pommel first. He caught it on reflex, weighing it his hand and finding with some surprise that it was a familiar blade. One of the those he’d surrendered the night they’d found the camp.

“Care for a little practise?” Gawain asked, revealing with a smile that this was going to be more for fun than to air any kind of grievance. “I think we’re due a rematch.”  
Lancelot had only held a weapon once since he had arrived at the camp and the Red Paladins who had died to it had come and gone so fast that he’d barely had time to acknowledge he was even using the sword in his hand. He’d been trying not to seem like a threat to the Fey, so he’d never asked for his weapons back or sought out the area they used as a small training grounds. It had been a while since he’d lingered on the feeling he got from holding a sword. The power. He knew he was good, practically unbeatable on his best days regardless of the number of assailants he was up against, and he couldn’t deny that he liked embracing his skill. It was familiar and, thanks to Father Carden’s strict regime of training, it was really the closest thing to the feeling of home he’d ever known. Somehow he felt he was more complete with a bow in his hand or when drawing a sword from a sheath. While he absolutely didn’t want to hurt Gawain, he found himself eager to fight, even just for practise. He had sufficient trust in his ability that he would be able to hold back enough that no one was accidentally going to end up in the healers’ tent, and he knew Gawain’s skill was well-honed and equally as restrainable, unlike the mindless fervour of those less dedicated. 

“I have a little time,” Lancelot smiled, settling his weight onto the balls of his feet so he was ready to move.

There was something satisfying about the sound two swords made when they crashed together, and even more so about the reverberations that sung in the muscles of Lancelot’s arm as he countered each blow. Gawain was fast and skilled and Lancelot was rather sure he’d been practising since their first sparring match, but it wasn’t hard-wired into him the way it was in Lancelot. He fought because he had had no choice but to learn to defend his people and Lancelot could see each decision he made in his eyes as he thought through which way to swing or to dodge. The Weeping Monk had never had to think, it was all on instinct and it almost never failed him.

-

As Pym and Nimue walked through the camp, the distinct sound of sword fighting so far from where the Fey trained raised alarms in them both. They turned to look at each other with matching expressions of fear, quickly ducking between the ropes that kept the tents up towards the source of the noise, Nimue keeping her hand on the pommel of her sword. Tentatively, both girls peeked round the canvas. For a moment, Nimue was about to rush in and defend Gawain against a man she shouldn’t have trusted but it only took a second for her to realise that there was no malice in the fight. She caught their smiles at each successfully parried blow and noted the way they refrained from any move that would actually cause any injury.

“Should we be concerned?” Pym whispered, wondering why boys were so incapable of talking to each other that they’d rather attack one another with swords than acknowledge their feelings.

“Let them fight,” Nimue just sighed. “They’re idiots, but they’re not hurting anyone. Including each other.”

She wasn’t about to get involved if they had something to work out, and headed back into camp without another word. Pym just frowned, wondering if her friend would have the same opinion if she knew how many secrets both men were keeping. They might have no intentions to hurt each other, but sharp objects and repressed emotions couldn’t make for a non-volatile combination.

-

Lancelot loved watching Gawain fight, even if he was on the other end of the sword. The Weeping Monk had had his fair share of opponents but this was the one man who came close to being a challenge and he felt hot beneath the collar of his undershirt from more than just exertion when he watched the focus in his eyes and admired his well-trained skill.

“You’re holding back, Ash Man” Gawain noted as he blocked a swing.

He wasn’t wrong.  
“Last time we did this, it didn’t end well,” Lancelot pointed out, the ‘ _for you’_ implicit but unsaid.  
“Yes, the blade through my abdomen did some damage,” Gawain said dryly.

Lancelot flinched at the reminder of the pain he’d caused, any response he could have summoned dying on his tongue. It was only a second of distraction, but it was all Gawain needed and it took three carefully aimed swings to disarm Lancelot of his sword. He then abandoned his own blade for the dagger in his boot and used the extra moment of confusion he got for willingly downgrading his weapon to pivot around his opponent and pull him tight against his chest, pinning his arms to his body and resting the dagger against his neck. He was careful to only make contact with Lancelot’s skin with the flat width of the blade, a teasing victory but with no risk of hurting him.

If Lancelot had been distracted by the reference to their previous fight, he surrendered all space in his brain entirely to the feeling of Gawain’s chest against his back, arms pulling him in close. He knew it was meant as a restraint and not an embrace, that there was a blade against his neck and armour digging into his shoulder blades, but he couldn’t think straight with the closeness. It didn’t help when Gawain leaned forward, so close his breath was warm against Lancelot’s cheek and his lips so close to his ear.

“I believe we’re now one all.”

-

When Pym heard the sounds of fighting stop from where they had set up outside Nimue’s tent in the sun, she worried. Needing to reassure herself that they hadn’t ended up killing one another, she snuck back between the tents again so she could check on them. The sight she saw had her gasping.

Well, they hadn’t killed each other yet, and she was pretty sure Gawain wasn’t actually about to slit Lancelot’s throat. It looked far more like an intimate embrace than any kind of act of victory, and she really hoped it meant they were finally going to talk.

“Nimue!” she hissed, the men too far away to hear her.

She’d promised Gawain she wouldn’t say anything and was sure she owed Lancelot the same courtesy, but if Nimue happened to see it for herself then perhaps that wouldn’t count and she’d finally have someone to talk to about it.

“They’re only practising, the worst they can do is let it get too personal,” Nimue called back, waving off what she assumed to be Pym’s concerns.

Oh things had gotten personal alright, Pym was sure. She was going to protest but when she turned back to look at the couple, they’d stepped away from each other and the moment was gone. Cursing the missed opportunity, she turned away, mumbling under her breath complaints about stupid men who couldn’t just talk to each other and be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to get really long if I didn't cut it here, so there will be two more chapters after this one :)


	12. Chapter 12

Gawain knew he was probably lingering too long, holding Lancelot too close, but it still took him a couple of moments before he could convince his arms to let go. Sparring with someone who knew what they were doing was rather exhausting work and he sat himself down on the ground for a break, not exactly disappointed when Lancelot joined him. It gave him a little satisfaction to know he’d managed to shorten the breaths of the Weeping Monk when the three Red Paladins in the woods hadn’t been able to. Any reminder of his ability to fight to defend his people was nice.

Reaching for the waterskin he’d brought along with his lunch, Lancelot took a swig from it and passed it over to Gawain. Neither of them mentioned anything when their fingers grazed together and lingered just a fraction of a second longer than was necessary. When Gawain gave it back, he also handed over the dagger with which he’d won the fight.

“This is yours, too,” he explained.

It was. Lancelot recognised it as the one he used to keep hidden up his sleeve, the final one he’d given up that first night.

There was something vaguely embarrassing about being beaten with his own weapon, about being beaten at all. While Gawain had been right that he hadn’t been fighting with his usual commitment, he hadn’t expected to lose either. He’d been thrown off guard. It has been a while since he’d fought as he used to, certainly, but not long enough for him to lose so quickly and so easily. Gawain was a risky distraction. Lancelot pinwheeled the dagger expertly round his fingers, just to remind himself he could, catching the handle cleanly and digging the tip into the ground.

“You like to fight,” Gawain observed.

The ease with which Lancelot had wielded his sword and the fire in his eyes as he did had not gone unnoticed. It was more than a necessity to him.

“I…” Lancelot ducked his head, not wanting to admit to it. It seemed wrong to enjoy something that had caused pain to so many people.

“It’s alright,” Gawain reassured him. “There’s no shame in that, not with skill like yours.”

Lancelot looked at him incredulously.

“You bested me,” he pointed out.

“I cheated,” Gawain admitted freely with a smile.

That didn’t seem like an accurate observation. While it may have embittered Lancelot to admit he could be distracted by attractive men trying to throw him off, it was an issue he was going to have to deal with and not something an opponent didn’t have a right to manipulate. There was no use in fighting fair, after all, when someone who wanted your head for real would happily fight dirty.

“It’s cheating to research your enemy and exploit their weaknesses? I believe that’s called good tactics,” Lancelot shrugged.

It was, after all, how he’d beaten Gawain the first time. Using his surprise to take control of the fight.

“The Weeping Monk admits he has a weakness,” Gawain teased.

Lancelot hadn’t heard that name spoken out loud in a while and it felt like ice down his back. He didn’t want it anymore, despite how he’d once been proud of the almost mythical reputation he’d cultivated. It was a name whispered in fear by children, passed from Fey to Fey as a warning. It had been given to him by someone who had let him know nothing but cruelty and hatred. He was done with it.

“No,” he said firmly, “but Lancelot might.”

The look the words earned him was halfway to a smile, but there was more to it than it. It seemed impressed, almost affectionate, and on the edge of awe. He was certain he’d imagined it, and turned away. Trying to change the subject, he pulled the dagger out the ground and tried to hand it back.

“Keep it. And the sword. If they ambush us, it’s senseless to have our best chance at survival unarmed,” Gawain explained. “You can have all the rest back too, blades and bow. I distinctly remember you being a damn good shot, and I know you wanted to teach Pym to shoot.”

They trusted him. If his old name was ice, the new realisation was the comfortable heat from a fire, filling him up. Gawain wouldn’t return his weapons to him without Nimue’s approval, so this meant he was no longer on probation at the camp. He had found somewhere he belonged. He couldn’t help but curl his fingers around the dagger in his hand, squeezing it tight to try and supress the wave of emotion cresting over him.

“Thank you,” he managed, barely more than a whisper.

There was a long moment of silence, not quite awkward but lingering with something else unsaid. Lancelot couldn’t quite work out what it was but, just as he was about to ask, Gawain came out with something that seemed entirely left-field.

“Do you… like Pym?” he asked, sounding hesitant.

Lancelot gave him an odd look. Was there anyone at camp who didn’t like Pym? She seemed to be constantly doing eight jobs at once, helping anyone and everyone who needed it.  
“Very much so,” he said honestly. She had accepted him long before many of the other Fey.  
“Oh, right. Well, I…” Gawain looked oddly wounded and shuffled awkwardly. “She doesn’t have any family left alive, but I’m as good as, so if you even think about hurting her then-”

“Of course I wouldn’t hurt her,” Lancelot interrupted, even more confused. Why would Gawain hand him back his swords only to suggest he meant anyone at the camp harm.

The Green Knight had never felt so out of place. He sighed roughly and ran his hand through his hair. This was the last thing he wanted to be doing. It made him ache to talk about Lancelot having feelings for someone else, but Pym deserved to have someone look out for her.  
“I know, this is just something older brothers do in this situation,” he tried to explain.  
“And what situation is that?”

Lancelot seemed determined to make him suffer through discussing it, it seemed. He gritted his teeth and forced out an answer.  
“You pursuing her.”  
“Pursuing? You think I…”

Lancelot finally realised what was happening. He had never been privy to the way people in love couched their words in generalisations to avoid admitting to the emotion itself, but it was clear that he and Gawain were dealing with different understandings of the word ‘like’. Pym was a ray of sunshine in every room she was in but, regardless of the phrasing used to describe it, he didn’t love her. He didn’t think she was the kind of person he could ever love, but even if that didn’t turn out to be the case, his affections lay elsewhere in the camp. Still, that didn’t explain why Gawain had seemed so resistant to the idea. Perhaps he was just protective of the Fey girl. Regardless, Lancelot knew he had to straighten things out.

“I do like Pym. She is kind to me in a way I do not deserve. But she’s my friend,” he said carefully, making sure his intent was clear.

“Oh,” Gawain blinked at him, rather lost for any other words. Hope bloomed in his chest and he worked hard to quash it.

“I’m sorry to have cut short your speech,” Lancelot added, with a small smile. It had been rather endearing to see him care so much for Pym. He wasn’t even sure Gawain knew how empathetic he was.  
“No, that’s fine, I just…” Gawain struggled with the language he’d known all his life. There was so much he wanted to say but couldn’t bring himself to. “Right, yes, well.”

It didn’t seem like the conversation was over but Lancelot wasn’t sure what was expected of him when it came to continuing it. He thought over what Pym had said to him about admitting his feelings to Gawain, and wondered what the ramifications would be. In all likelihood it wouldn’t end well at all. He didn’t think it would go as far as him being asked to leave the camp but it was entirely plausible that he’d have to move out of the tent that had slowly become his home over the last month, and that he’d lose the man he’d learned to trust the most. Still, there was a part of him that tried to shout over that voice with the ridiculous yet powerful suggestion that it might not end all that badly after all. Maybe Gawain would be sympathetic and understanding to the cruel irony of falling in love with a man he’d once been ordered to destroy. Or, the voice whispered, maybe you could wind your fingers in his hair and feel his stubble against your cheek. Lancelot knew the voice was wilfully misguided and a reckless fantasist, but it was so convincing that he opened his mouth.  
“Gawain?” he asked quietly.  
“Yes?”  
“You think me capable of love?”

The words hung in the air between them. Lancelot knew Gawain was looking at him, but he couldn’t bear to meet his eyes just in case what he found there was disgust. When he saw movement in his peripheral vision he flinched, used to being hit for speaking out of turn. But Gawain’s hand covered his own on the ground, warm and gentle, and Lancelot couldn’t breathe.  
“Aren’t you?” Gawain asked.

It took everything Lancelot had to summon up any word, barely able to hear them himself over the way his heart was pounding in his ears as he spoke them.  
“I think I could be,” he whispered.

Against his better judgement, he looked up and found Gawain closer than he was before, studying him intently. His eyes were soft and brimming with hope and Lancelot found himself lifting his hand, not even sure what he was reaching for. Before he could find out, a voice shouted out all too close by.

“Green Knight!” Squirrel shouted, giving them just enough warning to bolt apart from each other and look guilty before he was skidding out from between the tents. It was testament to how wrapped up they’d been in each other that neither of them had heard his footsteps sooner.

Pretending to be very interested in taking another long swig from him waterskin, Lancelot tried to calm his heartbeat and stop the way his hands were shaking. Gawain wasn’t faring much better himself but it was his name Squirrel had shouted so he was the one to answer him.  
“Boy, you really know how to pick your timings,” he sighed as he climbed to his feet, wondering what he’d done to anger the gods so much that they had to interrupt right in the middle of wherever that had been going.  
“Will you give me another sword fighting lesson?” Squirrel asked, pleading with large, eager eyes.

Gawain has been instructing him since he’d arrived at the camp, as evidently it was clear he was going to keep getting himself into trouble anyway and it would likely be better if he knew how to properly defend himself. But when Gawain looked over Squirrel’s shoulder and saw Lancelot hunched over, he didn’t want to leave. If there was any way of salvaging the moment they’d had and finding out how it ended, he couldn’t let that opportunity pass him by.  
“Later,” he promised Squirrel.  
“But later I have to help carry the laundry, Sir,” Percival protested. He’d been getting good with a sword lately and he didn’t want to have to wait days longer for any further training.

“Patience is a virtue,” Gawain countered. "And one you clearly need to work on."

Lancelot took a deep breath and stood, grateful to find his legs could still hold him.

“Go,” he encouraged Gawain. “We can discuss this later.”

There was plenty he wanted to say, especially since it had seemed that there was a least a chance that the tiniest portion of it could possibly be reciprocated, but he couldn’t do it unless he had time to think first. Besides, they both had to get back to work eventually. A lunch break wasn’t the time for this conversation. Squirrel just beamed, pleased to have gotten his way, and Gawain nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the rest of the day with everything weighing on him, but Lancelot could have asked him to move the Earth in that moment and he would have found a way.


	13. Chapter 13

Gawain had never been so anxious. The entire rest of the day he felt like he was about to jump out of his skin, desperate for work to end but terrified of how the evening was going to go. He got through his training session with Squirrel but had to excuse himself from the archery class he had planned to give several Faun children. He knew he wouldn’t be any use to them while his hands were shaking too much to even hold a bow.

It was probably a good thing that Lancelot had started working on the camp’s small patch of cultivated land to grow radishes and salad leaves and other vegetables that didn’t take too long to harvest. The little makeshift farm was a short walk from camp so Gawain knew he didn’t have to worry about running in to the other man for the rest of the afternoon before he’d mentally prepared, but staying in the camp was still starting to drive him crazy so he ignored all common sense and even his own orders, and went for a walk. The woods were familiar and unjudgmental and he only got about twenty minutes away, pointedly in the opposite direction from the farm, before he sat himself against a tree and tried to take several deep breaths. It was easier out there to calm down than it had been in the camp.

Gawain was a strategist. He’d learned how to analyse a situation, how to prepare for all eventualities and ensure the best possible result. But this was a map he couldn’t read. Lancelot was the one wild card in his life, the one person close to him he couldn’t fully understand and wanted to the most. His best judgment told him that he hadn’t been ignoring a potential reciprocation of feelings. The man certainly wasn’t interested in Pym and before Squirrel had so ungraciously arrived, it had seemed like something was going to happen. Only he cautioned himself about getting his hopes up, knowing it would be easier to mend his emotions back together after their planned discussion if he went in with low expectations.

It was several hours before Gawain could talk himself into going back to the camp to face this. He knew Lancelot’s work shift would be long over so, when he got back to his tent, he took a second to prepare himself before stepping inside. The sight he found certainly wasn’t what he expected. Lancelot was sat on his mattress, hunched over the sword Gawain had only just returned to him, and seemed to be filing down the grip with what looked like a blacksmithing file borrowed from one of the Tusks who worked in the trade before their villages had been burned.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?” he asked, the words trampling on the greeting he’d planned.

Lancelot just held up the sword to show the pommel, no longer as elegant and enamelled as it had once been. The red cross of the Paladins had been gouged out, half filed and half chipped, leaving an ugly mess of metal that he’d smoothed down so it wouldn’t tear at his skin when he held it. It was a good sword, well-made and efficient, and he was too familiar with it to freely give it up. But he wouldn’t wield their symbol any more, could not fight for the Fey with a blade bearing the same insignia that had once cut them down.

If anything, it made Gawain fall harder. As terrified as he’d spent the majority of the day being, now that Lancelot was in front of him he found himself wanting to get on with this. If an awkward conversation was the price to pay to finally wrap this man up in his arms then so be it. So he cleared his throat.

“It’s later,” he said, trying to sound confident, and maybe a little suave. By the confused look on Lancelot’s face, he failed miserably at the second.

“What?”  
“You said we should discuss it later. It’s later,” Gawain explained, turning a little shy.  
A flash of realisation appeared in Lancelot’s eyes and he nodded slowly, putting the sword aside and getting to his feet. Neither man knew quite what to say. There wasn’t a script for this, you couldn’t learn the ins and outs of how to navigate this kind of conversation. It wasn’t like learning to fight where you could analyse your opponent’s next move. This was like frantically paddling out of your depth without knowing how to swim. Eventually, frustrated that he could remember none of what he’d spent the day practising now he was put on the spot, Lancelot came out with the truth.

“Do you even know what you do to me? What you’ve always done to me?”

“I don’t understand,” Gawain said. He thought they’d moved past their chequered history.

Lancelot steeled himself. He didn’t often have an awful lot to say, always having been encouraged to mostly keep quiet, but this needed a few more words that usual.  
“You found out I was Fey because I slipped up, but I don’t slip up. I went years without a single person ever finding out and then I fight you and I can’t focus enough to keep my guard up. I never went into Brother Salt’s Kitchen, never even considered it, but I couldn’t stay away knowing you were there. And you were so _good_ , so kind even with crosses carved into your skin. Even before I’d ever seen you, you were this mythic figure. The Green Knight. And they told me you were a monster but then I saw you and... You weren’t afraid. Everyone else always was, even if they pretended not to be I could sense it in them, but you were never afraid of anything. Not me. Not Brother Salt. Not your own death. And now I watch you in this camp. You know everyone by name, you check up on people when they’re ill, you teach the children to fight. Nimue may be the Fey Queen and she might be their courage, but you’re their heart.”

The words were tumbling out, tripping on one another to make themselves known. It was a complete mess of a speech and Lancelot knew half of it didn’t make sense so he couldn’t blame Gawain for just staring at him with wide eyes.

“What are you saying?” the Green Knight managed, his mouth dry. He needed some kind of confirmation.

Lancelot lost his nerve. He shook his head, and started to head for the entrance of the tent so he could be anywhere but caught in Gawain’s gaze.  
“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, trying to duck around the other man.

“Wait,” Gawain protested, grabbing his arm to stop him from leaving.

He pulled a little too hard and Lancelot ended up awfully close to his chest, which wasn’t exactly something Gawain was against but it did chase all of the words he’d been planning to say from his head. They were eye to eye and Lancelot’s were shockingly blue, only brighter in their contrast to those beautiful, sad birthmarks that patterned his cheeks. Gawain couldn’t help but reach up and follow one of the lines down with his thumb, very aware that Lancelot practically melted against him at the simple touch, his knees forgetting how to function.

“They don’t rub off,” Lancelot mumbled, stumbling over practically every syllable.

“I know.”

Gawain’s thumb continued to trace them, soft and rough all at the same time as it tracked a slow pattern against his cheek. It was a tiny movement that Lancelot made, involuntary and probably ill-advised, as he turned his head just a little towards Gawain’s hand, the side of his thumb now resting against his lips. Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat but he didn’t move back, keeping his eyes fixed on a scuffed mark on the front of the Green Knight’s armour.

The shallow breath of Lancelot against his thumb was what spurred Gawain on. He wanted to see how far he could push it, see how ragged he could make those breaths turn. He wagered it wouldn’t take much – the Weeping Monk likely wasn’t a frequent acquaintance to anything like this. So he turned his attention from darkened birthmarks to bitten lips, his thumb tracing over the outline with the utmost care. Just as he thought, Lancelot’s breath quickened even more and he swallowed roughly, parting his lips infinitesimally.

There was no end to this plan; Gawain hadn’t thought it through to any logical conclusion, but when Lancelot finally looked up again and those eyes were staring into his, heavy with a kind of desperation it would be impossible to deny, the ending wrote itself. Sliding his hand across Lancelot’s cheek and finding long hair to weave his fingers in, Gawain pulled him closer and finally met his lips with his own.

Lancelot had never been kissed before and he was painfully aware that it probably showed, but he couldn’t help but reach out, his fingers scrabbling at the front of Gawain’s armour until they found purchase to grab and pull him closer. He absentmindedly registered that he’d rather prefer Gawain without the armour in the way, but he knew he didn’t have enough functioning brain cells to work lacing and clasps in that moment. Most of them were preoccupied by the way Gawain’s hands were soft on his face and around his waist, pulling him closer still, and his lips were warm and eager. There was still one small corner of his brain yelling, though. Because the conversation he’d spent the afternoon planning had one very important facet that they hadn’t touched on. Hating himself for it, he put his hand on Gawain’s chest and gently pushed him away.

The second Lancelot indicated he didn’t want things to continue, Gawain tried to step back, only to be met with a whine of complaint and a hand on his shoulder stopping him going too far. He attempted to search Lancelot’s face, unsure what the problem was, but it wasn’t easy to read. So he waited for the explanation he hoped was coming.

“I have done terrible things. Killed people,” Lancelot sighed, hating to have to admit to it in that minute but needed to make it clear what Gawain was getting himself into. Regardless of how hard Lancelot tried and how much good he ever put out into the world, nothing could change what he’d done.

“And I haven’t?” Gawain pointed out. More than his fair share of Red Paladins had died at his sword and, while they may have been trying to eradicate his people, they were still men with lives he’d put an end to. “Everyone thinks their side of the war is right. That the lives they take are justified. And you were manipulated. Horribly.”

“Yes,” Lancelot agreed, letting his fingertips find their way under Gawain’s breastplate to trace his collarbone.

“Born in the dawn…” Gawain prompted.

“To pass in the twili-”

When Lancelot’s reply came without a second of hesitation, he didn’t even get to finish the end of the sentence before he was back in Gawain’s arms and his words were lost in another kiss. Because that was all Gawain needed to hear to know that The Weeping Monk was well and truly a thing of the past and the man in front of him would never seek to harm his own people again.

This time, Gawain’s hands snuck under the hem of Lancelot’s shirt, hesitating for just a second before carefully following a path up his back, reverently tracing over the scars there. It earned him a gasp and he could feel the shiver that went down Lancelot’s spine, but he wasn’t asked to stop so he didn’t. Only when he felt Lancelot tugging almost impatiently on his armour did he move his hands with a laugh against the other man’s lips, fully intending to try and remove it but not contented to break their kiss to do so. But he couldn’t get his fingers to focus on fine motor control when Lancelot was so insistently and maddeningly intent on ruining his sanity.

That was how Nimue found them.  
She’d had a question for Gawain about some plans they’d been drawing up regarding new routes for hunting parties that would still be safe but hopefully result in larger game, and she’d assumed he’d be in his tent since he wasn’t in hers. It hadn’t occurred to her to announce her presence – he wouldn’t be sleeping at this early hour and he had never been annoyed to see her in the past. So when she ducked inside and found him extremely caught up with his new roommate, she was stunned. Surprise had her tongue so words escaped her, but her sudden appearance was enough for both men to jump apart like they’d been caught doing something wrong.

“By the gods, Nimue! Does no one in this camp understand privacy,” Gawain complained. “If this isn’t an emergency and we’re not currently under siege from at least two armies...” he trailed off, the threat implicit.

Nimue just ignored him, crossing her arms and barely withholding a smile. She hadn’t exactly expected this, but it somehow still made sense.

“Were you planning on explaining this?” she asked, with just a hint of teasing. What else were little sisters for, even pseudo ones.

“Not really, no,” Gawain retorted.

This was his business and he had preferred to keep it that way. When they’d been ambushed, even by an innocent invader, he’d stepped in front of Lancelot automatically and he felt a hand on his back. He wasn’t sure if it was to calm him down or to support him.  
“Gawain-” Nimue began, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“I’ll explain this when you explain Arthur,” he challenged.

He had never gone prying into their relationship, had always knocked on doors she was behind, and he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his right to the same privacy just because of his choice in partner. Lancelot might have a dark past, but Arthur had been a thief and a liar so he was hardly an angel. People changed.

Nimue rolled her eyes, not taking his words as an insult. She looked the pair over and noted with some surprise how shy Lancelot seemed, his face flushed with embarrassment. He didn’t seem to want to meet her eye. She guessed that he’d probably never had the same experiences as most of the rest of them growing up, had never been a lovestruck teenager caught with a partner by his parents. He hadn’t gone through all that and come out the other side more sure of himself and his choices. She hoped Gawain was keeping all of that in mind but, from the way he had immediately settled in to a defensive stance in front of the man, she doubted there was much to worry about.

She had every intention of leaving them alone, with a plan to formally apologise to the both of them the next morning for intruding, but before she left she allowed herself just one last act of sibling torment.

“Okay, perhaps you don’t need to explain this to me,” she conceded. “But which one of you is explaining it to Squirrel?”

With that she disappeared with a grin, leaving Lancelot to groan and rest his forehead against the back of Gawain’s shoulder.

“Your family has boundary issues,” he mumbled. “And if either of us has to tell Percival about this, it’s you.”

Gawain just laughed, turning so he could pull Lancelot back into his arms and kiss him softly.

“You’re not wrong, and how about neither of us tell him,” he reasoned.

Despite the fact he really didn’t want to, he walked over to the entrance to the tent and knotted the ties that kept it from flapping open in the wind. It was hardly a bolted door but it would hopefully at least let people know they really didn’t want company. Turning back to Lancelot, Gawain made quick work of the fastenings on his armour until there was a haphazard pile of it tossed in the direction of his mattress. The eyebrow he then raised was nothing but a challenge and, once Lancelot was quite finished admiring the sight of him in his undershirt, it was one that was going to be thoroughly and enthusiastically met.

The war was far from over and the Fey were far from safe but Gawain thought that maybe they didn’t need every hour of every single one of his days. Maybe he could have a little time off from the fight now and then, and he knew he’d struggle to think of a way he’d rather spend it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this is the end. It's increasingly hard to attempt to write everyone in character when this fic is set so far away from the realities of season 1 and I don't want it to just become OOC fluff (although believe me I've written plenty of that in the past). I might do a little epilogue just to round things off t some point but for now i'm ending it here.  
> I do hope you liked this fic. Thank you so much for indulging me by reading and leaving kudos and comments. It had really brightened my days to read them all <3 Hopefully they announce a second season for Cursed soon because I really want to see where they take these two characters. While it's unlikely we'd ever actually canonically see them together, I hope this ship sails on regardless!


End file.
